Don't You Forget About Me
by Enlee
Summary: House has been missing for nearly a week. Where was he? What happened? A Huddy and Law & Order: Criminal Intent crossover. The Last Chapter is now up. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Another Huddy-esque story. This one is little different. I hope you like it._

* * *

Light spilled across the bed where Gregory House lay sleeping. He was on his back, one arm curled over his chest. 

Cuddy watched him from the doorway. Minutes ticked by and she stood unmoving. Her shadow stretched across the floor, all the way to the night stand. She could see the scrape across his knuckles, the dried blood leaving a dark smudge across his pale skin. There was another scrape on his chin that was masked by his scruffy beard. She stepped forward, wanting to wrap those long musician's fingers around her own when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

"He's fine," Wilson said quietly, though a worried glance toward his friend and the anxiety in his voice told her otherwise. He looked as drained as she felt. "Don't wake him up."

"I wasn't. I just–"

"Come on and sit down before you fall down. Both of us could use a drink. I don't think he'll mind if we borrow some of his scotch."

Cuddy sighed and shuffled towards the sofa. "I'll buy him another bottle," she muttered.

Wilson headed to the kitchen.

The bedroom door was left open.

* * *

"He's not here." 

It was Foreman, calling from House's apartment where she had sent him to drag House into work after a half hour of her calls and pages went unanswered.

"Dammit, I'm not playing games here. Now tell him to get his ass down here now." The entire morning had been one fire to put out after another, and Cuddy wasn't in the mood for any kind of practical joke, especially one played on her.

"He's not here," Foreman said again, emphatically. "Dr. Cuddy, I don't like the looks of this..."

"What is it?" Her anger at House deciding to play hooky at the worst possible time began to slide into dread.

"The television was on when I got here. His motorcycle is still here. There's a sandwich and a Pepsi on the coffee table. The sandwich has maybe two bites taken out of it, and it's hard and crusty, like it's been sitting out all night. And the Pepsi is warm and flat."

Cuddy stared at the phone, incredulous. "Foreman, I swear if you and House are playing some kind of sick–"

"I'm_ not_." His tone was anything but playful. The line crackled with the seriousness of his words.

More dread hit her stomach like an avalanche.

House didn't show up at the hospital. He didn't go back his apartment. He didn't call, send an e-mail, or a registered letter.

He was gone.

* * *

Six days. It had been six days since Dr. Gregory House disappeared from his apartment in Princeton, New Jersey. 

Those six days had been spent in a fog of promises from the police to do all they could to find him, condolences and reassurances from friends and colleagues. The whispers and false notes of sympathy got to be too much and she locked herself away in her office, venturing out only if necessary. Nights were spent alone. Reaching out to the other side of the bed to find it empty. Making dinner for one. No one to play her requests on the piano.

_Where did he go?_

No note left behind. No calls for a ransom demand. No nothing.

Wilson gave her a shoulder to cry on. He sat with her while they waited and waited for the phone to ring. Waiting for the call. The police had been looking high and low. House's credit cards hadn't been used. No money had been taken from his bank account.

The call might bring bad news but neither of them said it out loud.

Wilson decided to stay with Cuddy and keep her company, saying she shouldn't spend another long night alone. He sat in House's spot on the sofa and it just seemed wrong. He didn't put his feet on the table. He let her pick what she wanted to watch. She bit her lip and swallowed the words before she spoke them and ended up regretting it.

The phone rang. The number was on the caller ID was from New York City. It was the phone number for Detective Robert Goren. He was probably calling for an update and to offer a sympathetic ear. She had filled him on everything that was happening and he had called nearly every day. She picked up the phone and gave him a warm greeting.

He told her that Dr. Gregory House was sitting in a chair at his desk

Twenty seconds later Cuddy and Wilson were out the door and racing to New York City.

* * *

From what they could piece together, a disheveled and bleary-eyed House had found himself in Greenwich Village. All of his money and credit cards were missing from his wallet, but he had found a card tucked behind a picture of a dark-haired woman. The card was for Detective Robert Goren. House somehow managed scrape together enough change to use a payphone and call the detective. Luckily, Goren was at his desk when House punched in the numbers. 

He recognized House's voice. The man who had been missing for nearly a week. He was alive and on the phone.

House didn't recognize the voice of his friend. He didn't recognize the names Robert Goren, Alex Eames. He didn't his own name. All he knew was that he standing in a phone booth with a detective's card. He had dialed the number on the card because he didn't know what else to do.

The ride home was long and quiet. House was stretched out in the backseat. There were a few scratches and bruises on him, otherwise he was physically okay. He didn't chat with his friends because he didn't know them. They were strangers to him. He had been reluctant to go with them, but Goren had apparently won his trust and told him they were his friends and he was in good hands.

The police had nothing to go on concerning his disappearance and how the hell he ended up in New York because House couldn't tell them anything. All he remembered was waking up in an alley in Greenwich Village and finding the phone. It isn't a crime for an adult to wake up in a strange city.

House stared out the window until the drone of the engine eventually lulled him to sleep.

Wilson drove while Cuddy glanced into the rearview mirror every few seconds. She remembered the look in his eyes when she had walked up to him after not knowing whether he was dead or alive for past six days. He only recognized her as the woman from the picture in his wallet. He didn't know her name. He didn't know who she was.


	2. Chapter 2

There was no cane found with Gregory House, but a prescription bottle of Vicodin with three pills left was in his front pocket. He had dry swallowed one after getting into the car for the trip home. He had popped off the lid and tipped one into his mouth like he had done a million times before. Old habits were still in his memory. The prescription had been filled the day before he vanished into thin air and surfaced in another state. Wilson and Cuddy were pondering how long he had been without his cane by the time he made it to the phone, and more mysteriously, how the hell he ended up in New York in the first place, when they both decided it could wait until after they got a few desperately needed hours of sleep.

The oncologist decided to stay and sleep on the sofa, just in case. Cuddy would later identify the feeling that washed over her as an immense sense of relief that she wasn't going to have to tackle this mess on her own. Besides, if Wilson had made a move to leave, she would have dragged him back into the apartment by his hair. No way was she going to face this alone. Wilson was staying, regardless.

The night was warm. Wilson needed only a light sheet to go along with the pillow she got for him as he made himself comfortable in the living room. Cuddy padded to the bedroom, leaving the door open.

House was still long gone, the only difference being that he had turned on to his left side and was hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. He didn't move a muscle when she opened the dresser and pulled out a random tee shirt. It was one his bigger shirts; it could almost double as a dress on her, hanging down past her knees.

She climbed into the bed as quietly as possible, and edged her way as close to him as she dared, until she could hear him breathing and feel the warmth radiating from him without actually touching his skin. No cuddling tonight, no exchange of whispered words. That wasn't important. He was alive and he was back home. That was all that mattered, the only thing that mattered at that moment in time.

_Why did you leave?_ she thought. _What happened in New York?_

Hoping that he would recognize the woman he loved and his best friend in the morning, that mattered even more.

* * *

In the blinding panic, he tried to scream but the sound caught in his throat and produced only a choked-off cry. House was only dimly aware of how pathetically weak his voice sounded to his own ears, but it was loud enough for someone else to hear. A pair of hands encircled his wrist and pulled at him, urging him back. The overwhelming urge to get away, get away, _Get Away Now_, took over all his senses as he tore free from the hands that held him. Get out or die, he had to get out, the thought raced through his mind even as he found himself toppling over and landing with a bone-jarring thud, panic replaced by a supernova of pain tearing through his right leg. 

A frantic voice from behind him cut through the thick slab of agony, a woman's voice: "_Wilson_!"

A whirlwind of voices and shadows and hands that were touching, pulling, grabbing, the white-hot fire in his leg, and the need to _Get Away NOW, _and he was wildly swinging at the shadows in his way, making contact and a searing pain across his knuckles, and the words _"No! No! No!_" were ringing in his ears and it was his voice that was screaming them. The whirlwind spun faster and he was feeling sick; he couldn't go anywhere because he couldn't move. His leg was killing him and he couldn't move and strong arms were holding on to him tightly. He was trapped. It was over. Panic dwindled into resignation. He surrendered and collapsed, awaited his fate and hoped it would be over with soon enough.

Softness through the pain. First he felt it, then he heard it. A silky smoothness gliding up and down his neck and arms. So very, very nice. Faint rasping as the fingernails made contact with his skin. Cool dampness on his face as it was wiped down with a wet cloth. The voices talking to him in hushed tones: "_It's alright. You're going to be fine_." "_Greg? Can you hear me?_" "_Your pills are right here_."

Pills. The white pills. Something deep down in his mind told him that he was very familiar with those pills and they were good, they took the pain away and left him feeling just fine. Everything was just fine as long he had those pills. House slowly opened his eyes and found himself on the hardwood floor of a bedroom, the bed he fell out of looming over the room like a mountain. The silky fingers continued their journey along his skin. They belonged to the dark-haired woman from the photo; his head was now cradled in her lap. He was soaked with sweat but she didn't seem to mind. She gave him a friendly smile and he couldn't help but like it.

"Let's get him back into bed." A man's voice said. The man who had come with the woman after the detectives told him they were calling his friends to come take him back home to New Jersey. The tall detective Bobby and his partner Alex. They had picked him up after he called from the pay phone. They brought him a sandwich and soda. They said they knew him, his name was Gregory House and they had been friends for a while. That's why he had the card in his wallet. Bobby said he had given it to him and told him to call if he ever needed anything. House couldn't remember ever meeting either of the detectives before. But he was glad he had found the card.

The man knelt down beside them, his clothes rumpled and his shirt hanging open, a trickle of blood leaking out of his nose. House struggled to remember his name. He remembered the woman's name. It was Lisa. They must be good friends for him to have her picture in his wallet. Now what was the man's name? It started with a J. John. That was it. His name was John.

They weren't going to hurt him. He was safe with them.

"Give him his pills first," Lisa said.

"Let's get him into bed first," John said. "The floor is killing his leg."

"He's in too much pain now–"

"He's going to be in pain and it's going to hurt, whether he has his pills now or later. Now help me get him up and let's get this over with." House winced as John pulled him up into a sitting position. "We're putting you back to bed now, and it's going to be painful," John said quietly into his ear. "We're going to do this as quickly as possible and then you can have your pills. Do you understand, Greg?"

House nodded weakly and braced himself. It was every bit as painful as he thought it would be and then some. His right leg was still in the grip of a vicious, unrelenting agony. Thankfully they were able to lift him up and get him back into the bed with only a minimal amount of trouble and one accidental thwack of his ankle against the bed frame. Good thing it was his left ankle or he might have died on the spot.

"Take these." Lisa now held two white pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. House didn't need to be told twice. The pills were gobbled down in half a second. The water was drained almost as quickly.

"Oh...God...," he moaned and fell back into the pillow, exhausted beyond words.

"Ssshh...let the pills work." Lisa's soft voice floated in the breeze, and her soft fingers brushed against his cheek. "Relax and let the pills work...ssshhhhh...it's okay..."

A bolt of panic ripped through his chest and everything was far from okay. Another voice rang in his ears, a voice that didn't belong to anyone in the room, a voice that soft and quiet and threatening. _Ssshhh...the more you struggle, the more painful it will be for you and her..._

"Stay away from her," House whimpered even as the dreamy haze of the Vicodin began to settle over him. He twisted into his pillows and blankets, trying to shrink away, trying to hide. "Go away. Leave us alone."

"Greg?" Lisa's called from far beyond the Vicodin bliss. "Greg, you're home now. It's alright."

_No, it's not_, House thought as the bedroom and Lisa's voice faded away.


	3. Chapter 3

The atmosphere in the room calmed as House fell back asleep, but there was still something that wasn't quite right. Along with his cryptic words that were lingering in the air, he was curled up into a fetal position as much as his throbbing leg would allow. He almost never slept like that since keeping his leg stretched out helped keep the cramping from getting too bad. And he hugging a pillow to his chest like a security blanket. The scrape across his knuckles had broken open, oozing a fresh trail of blood down his hand. He suddenly looked very small beneath the blue sheets.

_What happened in New York?_

The last two Vicodin weren't going to the keep the pain away forever, and falling out of the bed certainly hadn't helped his leg in that regard. A brief search turned up no hidden stashes. Waking House up to see if he remembered where a stash might be was definitely out of the question. Wilson began to button up his shirt, getting ready to make a run for another prescription when Cuddy told him to stay put. She would get his pills, and make a few necessary arrangements regarding the days of work the three of them would be missing. Besides, she pointed out, if House had another panic attack, she wouldn't be able to stop him and they both might end up getting hurt. Wilson gingerly touched his nose, still bleeding a bit from where House had backhanded him in his blind panic, and agreed. Wilson took the hit that had been flying towards Cuddy by pushing her out the way.

After his boss left, Wilson hunted down some tissues, peroxide and bandages. He took a few minutes to tend to his sore nose, then went to his friend's bedside. At the rate he was going, House was never going to let the scrape across the knuckles of his right hand heal. The peroxide fizzed on contact with the wound. If House had been awake, and remembered who on earth he was, he would have been bitching and moaning about how it stung like hell and would he hurry up already. But he was out cold, only his fingers twitching; probably from a dream rather than Wilson's medical care.

The bandage around House's hand was secure. Wilson looked down at his friend. The oncologist was certain that House didn't willingly just drop everything and travel to New York for no reason.

* * *

"You're very nice," House said when Cuddy brought him two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a tall glass of milk. A new prescription bottle of Vicodin sat on the night stand. 

It was early afternoon. He had woken up half an hour ago, thankfully not in a panic. Just a bit groggy and very hungry. Wilson had helped him sit up and checked the bandage on his hand while Cuddy made the sandwiches. With things under control, Wilson decided to run home and get changed and get some extra clothes. Cuddy would do the same when he got back.

She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him eat. "Thank you," she replied to his compliment.

He inhaled half a sandwich, then washed it down with three chugs of the milk before saying, "You seem to know me very well."

"I do."

"You and I...we're close?"

"Very close."

"How close?" He picked up another half of a sandwich and looked at her, waiting for an answer.

"We're lovers."

The answer didn't seem to surprise him. "I suppose that would qualify as 'very close'. I'll bet you gave me that picture to put in my wallet and stood over me until it was safe in there." He munched on his meal and appeared to be privately amused at the thought.

"No, you stole it from a photo album in my closet."

"You can have it back."

"Keep it. You've earned it, "she said with a sigh, then stared at him intently and asked, "Has anything else come back to you? Are you remembering any more details?"

"My name is Gregory House," he answered between bites. "That's what everyone keeps calling me, anyway."

"What else?"

"I'm a doctor."

"Yes...?"

"I specialize in infectious diseases. And I play the piano. Judging by that smile on your face I guess I'm saying the right things."

"So far."

"What happened to my leg?"

Her smile collapsed. "You don't–"

"It looks like a shark tried to make a meal out of me. What happened? Please tell me it wasn't a shark."

"No," Cuddy replied, and looked down at the floor. "Not hardly. It was a blood clot. Nine years ago. The muscle died and it was removed."

She held her breath and waited to see if he would ask about Stacy or ask more questions about his leg.

He didn't. He just quietly said, "Thank you," and moved on to the second sandwich.

She decided to go ahead and ask since he was talking. Maybe now he'll have an answer. "What were you doing in New York, Greg?"

"I don't know."

"You had no reason to go there except maybe to see Bobby and Alex, and they told me that you hadn't mentioned traveling up there. So why were you there?"

"I have no idea."

"What happened this morning?" she asked, and he froze in mid-chew. "What were you so afraid of?"

House finished chewing before answering, his voice going flat. "I opened my eyes and the 'Fight or Flight' instinct took over. I had to get out of here." His brow furrowed at the recent memory. The rest of sandwich slipped out of his hand and landed with a slap on the plate.

"What were you trying to get away from?"

"I don't know. I just knew I had to get out or die. I think I wound up punching John in the face."

She reached over and took his hand. He glanced down at their interlocked fingers, as if he had never seen that before. Her hand gave his a gentle squeeze. He didn't return it.

"His name is James," Cuddy reminded him, feeling as though she had been punched in the stomach upon hearing him identify his best friend by the wrong name. "James Wilson."

House didn't answer, just shook his hand free of hers and shifted his focus to the remains of his lunch.

"Greg, you said 'go away, leave us alone' this morning after we got you back on the bed. Do you remember that?"

He nodded, still not looking up.

"Who were you talking to?"

Slowly, he raised his head and met her eyes. "Probably whoever I was trying to get away from," he said.

"Who is 'us'"?

"You and me."


	4. Chapter 4

House was taking a shower when she got back to the apartment with the shiny black gym bag full of extra clothes. Wilson declared he was starving, and disappeared into the kitchen to search for enough food to feed the three of them. Cuddy stuffed the gym bag into the bottom of the closet. Then she peeled off her suddenly constricting blouse and skirt and changed into a pair of baggy shorts and the Jack Daniel's shirt. Feeling more free and relaxed than she had in days, she settled on the sofa.

Ten minutes later House came limping out, bringing a cloud of steam with him. He had shaved, making the nasty looking scrape across his chin all the more visible. For whatever reason he hadn't put on his own tee shirt yet, it was bunched up in his left hand. His dark green pajama bottoms clung to his damp skin. Shiny beads of water dripped from his hair and rolled down the curve of his neck. Cuddy licked her lips and turned toward him, making sure he had a grand view of the most beloved item in her wardrobe. All the while, bangs and clangs echoed out of the kitchen, followed by various unintelligible mumbles from Wilson.

He didn't seem to notice as he made his way to the sofa, pausing to pull on his shirt, then sank into the cushion next her. He turned his attention to her and looked curiously at what she was wearing.

"That shirt is kind of big on you," House said.

"It's comfortable," Cuddy said, watching carefully as he kept studying the shirt with faint interest. Not one trace of recognition flickered across his features. She hoped he wouldn't look into her eyes and see her disappointment.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a Jack Daniel's kind of gal," he remarked, the beginnings of a grin curling on his mouth.

"I wasn't until I got involved with you."

"Really? I must be very influential, especially when it comes to peculiar fashion choices. Either that or this particular shirt must mean something to you."

"You could say that."

"In other words you're saying it means a great deal to you since you went well out of your way to make damn good and sure I noticed it. There must be quite a story behind it. Did I give it to you?" He made eye contact then. If he noticed anything he didn't say so.

"Yes, you did."

Wilson's voice suddenly cut through the living room: "I hope you two like Spaghetti-O's, because that's all there is in this place!"

With an annoyed glance, House called back, "It's fine."

"We could pick up the phone and order something," the oncologist yelled with more than little hint in his voice. He was making suggestions when a knocking at the front door cut off all conversation like someone pulling the plug.

House stared wide-eyed at the door, his breath had stopped dead in his throat. Wilson stood in the kitchen doorway, glancing between the door and his friend.

Cuddy was reaching over to put a hand on House's shoulder when a muffled, familiar voice spoke: "Dr. House? Is anyone home?"

It was Detective Eames.

Wilson smiled and opened the door. The New York detectives stepped into the room.

"Dr. House," Goren said with big smile. "You're looking very well. I told you that you were in good hands with Dr. Cuddy."

"Thank you," House replied, looking a little flustered. The sudden crowding of his living room appeared to be making him nervous.

"We were getting ready to order some dinner," Wilson said, strolling into the room with a stack of envelopes. "You're more than welcome to join us." He handed the envelopes to his friend. "Here, before I forget."

House frowned at them. "What's all this?"

"Your mail. I know a lot has happened over the last week, but that won't stop the cable company from wanting their money."

"Yeah, the last thing I need right now is to miss reruns of _Boy Meets World_," the diagnostician grumbled, snatching the envelopes and leafing through them.

Cuddy choked down a laugh. That was the Gregory House she knew.

"Thank you, James," Eames spoke up. "Actually, we were hoping to ask Dr. House a few more questions. Maybe he'll remember something; even the smallest detail might be helpful. We'll be as quick as possible and let you enjoy your dinner."

Wilson said, "Please stay, if you can. We don't mind at all. We were thinking about pizza, or maybe Chinese. How does that sound?"

Goren glanced at his partner. "How about it, Eames. You think spending an extra hour or two down here will matter all that much?"

"If you can pony up a few bucks to pay for our share, then it's fine with me. And we are paying for our share," Eames insisted. "But if Ross starts bitching, you can explain why we were gone for so long."

"Pizza sounds good to me," Cuddy said. "Is that all right with you, Greg?"

She turned to him and froze.

He was holding what looked like a greeting card. His face was the same color as the pale white envelope it had arrived in.

"Dr. House?" Goren threw a concerned look over to the sofa. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. Cuddy then noticed that he was shaking.

"Greg, what is it? What's on there?" She grabbed the card out of his hand just as House let out a strangled sob that was pure misery.

It was a Get Well card with a silly picture of a mouse holding a bouquet of flowers on the front. Inside was a sloppily scrawled inscription. Cuddy read it, her disbelief and horror rising with each word read. She reached the end, and while barely aware that Goren was carefully taking the card out her hands, she screamed, "_Oh, my God_!", a scream of terror from the very base of her being. The words boomed off the walls, making the seasoned detectives flinch.

Goren looked in the card and for a moment was only able to gasp at the short message:

_My Dear Gregory,_

_You are alive because I allowed you to live. Remember that every time you look at Lisa. My love to the detectives_.

"What the hell is happening? Oh, Jesus, what the hell is happening?" It was Wilson, his voice cracking. He was looking at something. It wasn't the card. He was looking at something in House's lap.

Eames noticed it and walked over. It was a dark square object, a Polariod photograph. It must have fallen out when he opened the card. On it was a clear close-up of Dr. Gregory House, eyes closed and slumped against a wall, a gloved hand holding a gleaming butcher knife to his throat.


	5. Chapter 5

No pizza was delivered. No Chinese was ordered. Whatever appetite the doctors and cops had was effectively killed on the spot. The dinner conversation seemed like a distant memory.

The apartment was soon a mess of shadows and blurs as Goren and Eames put the card, photograph and envelope into evidence bags and chattered away on their cellphones. Wilson paced on the other side of the room until he couldn't stand it anymore and brought out the bottle of scotch for everyone to share. The detectives declined, requesting coffee instead. After drinks were poured for the others, the oncologist disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of running water and the _floof!_ of the stove being lit were heard.

Concern and fear and worry clouded the faces of everyone in the room. Goren and Eames were standing by the door, their guns on their hips. Wilson made himself comfortable at the other end of the sofa, his face the color of chalk. He refilled his glass more than once.

House gulped down his scotch and blinked when the bottle appeared out of nowhere to refill his glass. It was Lisa; she refilled his glass to the brim, then her own. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face splotchy, streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks. She gripped his arm hard enough to leave bruises with one hand and her held her drink in the other, her knuckles white and the glass threatening to shatter at any second. She was shaking just as badly as he was.

The danger was now all too real and it held a very sharp knife.

A sharp knife that had made contact with his throat.

The detectives were handed their coffee, then Wilson went over and sat on the arm of the sofa, putting a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. House glanced up at him, then back down to his drink. He wished he could crawl away and hide. He just wanted to hide away from the world and never come back out.

"Dr. House," Goren began. He remained standing while Eames sat on the edge of the easy chair. "We need to ask you some more questions. I know we have probably asked you some of these before, but we're hoping you might remember something. Any detail you might remember, no matter how insignificant it may seem, please tell us."

House nodded. The detectives began their questions.

"Do you remember anything about the night you went missing?" Goren asked. "Anything at all?"

"No."

"What about the time before that? Do you remember getting any strange phone calls?"

"No, I still can't remember anything."

"How about seeing someone hanging around your apartment? Or someone hanging around the hospital who shouldn't have been there? Strange letters? Do you remember anything like that?"

House shook his head.

Wilson and Cuddy confirmed that there were no reports of weird phone calls, weird mail or strangers lurking about from anyone in the hospital.

Goren wasn't about to give up so easily. "What about from the time you were gone until you found my card. Do you remember anything?"

"I...I might...There was this..."

All eyes were on House. Cuddy held her breath, waiting for his answer.

"What is it?" Goren urged him to continue. "A room? A street sign? Tell us anything you saw or even think you saw."

"I don't remember seeing anything, but I remember hearing a voice."

"A voice from a television or radio?" Eames puzzled. "Is that what you mean?"

"No, this voice was talking to me. I remember this low voice telling me to stop struggling. The more I struggled, the more painful it would be."

Goren set down his coffee cup. "What were you struggling against, Dr. House?"

"I don't know."

"Is that all he says?" Cuddy broke in, unable to stop herself from interrupting. If the detectives minded, they didn't say anything. They were probably going to ask that question before she beat them to it.

"It's not a man's voice," House replied, the sudden certainty in his answer cut through the air.

Eames leaned forward. "A woman? Dr. House, are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes, I heard a woman's voice."

"Do you recall anything else she said? Did you hear anyone else talking?"

"I only heard her voice," he answered, more words from the mystery woman becoming clear in his head. He turned to the dark-haired woman sitting beside him. "She kept talking about you, Lisa, and how it was too bad that you weren't there to watch."


	6. Chapter 6

The only meal that night consisted of the liquid variety, but Cuddy didn't worry about it too much. She didn't think she could keep any solid food down. The damned card and picture kept center stage in her mind, the spotlight shining brightly on both of them. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by low cloud of dread hanging over the living room.

Goren tried his best to reassure them, pointing out that the inscription seemed to indicate the kidnapper was done with the sick little game, all played out. The doctors knew he was probably right, but they still couldn't convince themselves. They continued to jump at every little creak in the floorboards.

_You are alive because I allowed you to live._

Goren and Eames had left hours ago, but House hadn't moved from the sofa. If his stomach growled for anything besides booze, he hadn't bothered to say so. He hadn't said much of anything since the detectives said their goodbyes. Ordinarily, House could and would talk a mile a minute about anything that happened to fire the synapses in his mind. She wished it could be an ordinary night with him. She wanted the old Gregory House back–the one who could and would talk her ears off and wasn't slouched at the end of the sofa, half-drunk and terrified by a Get Well card sent by a maniac to show off a sick of sense of humor, among other things.

_Remember that every time you look at Lisa._

She hadn't left his side for a good portion of the night. Her hand was massaging his shoulder, and thankfully, he didn't seem to mind. That was as close as he was letting her get for the moment. She wanted to gather him up in her arms, run her fingers through his hair, stroke the back of his neck. Let him know that everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn't.

"Cuddy?" Wilson spoke up suddenly from the easy chair, startling her back into reality. "You want something to eat? I haven't eaten since noon and I'm starting to get shaky. I guess Spaghetti-O's will have to do."

"No, thank you."

"How about you, House?" The oncologist turned his attention to his friend. "You want some?"

"No," he replied. "I'm not hungry, Jeff."

"James. My name is James." Wilson sighed and regarded them for a moment, then stood up. "Well, let me know if you change your minds." He rounded the corner into the kitchen. Soon the heavy clunks of cans being set on the counter broke the silence.

The canned stuff that tried to pass itself off as pasta, the stuff that House always insisted on having in his apartment was nasty, and Cuddy didn't think she could even tolerate the smell. Visions of racing to the bathroom and saying hello to the bottom of the toilet bowl ran through her mind, and it wasn't pretty. She decided to try and get a few hours of sleep, or at least face the endless night under some warm covers. House was coming with her whether he wanted to or not.

"Hey," she said, tugging on his arm. "We should go lay down."

"We?" House looked a little wary, as if being scared, exhausted and confused wasn't enough. "But I don't know if we...wait, it was you who tried to keep me from falling out of bed."

"Yes. You nearly pulled me off too."

"Sorry."

"You don't have to be," she said, slightly amused that he had apologized for something that wasn't his fault. "Come lay down with me. You're tired."

"I'm not tired," he grumbled, sounding a bit more like his old self . The glaze over his eyes told her that he was going to fall asleep right there if she didn't get him to bed soon. With a short, emotionless laugh, he said, "I don't think I'll ever sleep again. Not after tonight."

"You saw the envelope," she said. "It was postmarked from Washington, DC. That's nearly two hundred miles away. Wilson and I are here with you. You're going to be alright. Nothing's going to happen."

The apartment was locked up tight. Two seconds after the detectives left, Wilson had thrown the deadbolt and locked all the windows. Three minutes after that he double-checked everything.

"You and I...," House began, looking uneasy, groping for the right words, "We're very close, like you said?"

He turned to face her, and she could that the events of the evening were catching up with him. He was fighting to stay awake. On top of that, all the scotch had dulled his senses. Cuddy guessed that's why he was asking what he was asking. He so out of it at the moment that he most likely wasn't aware that he was asking it.

"Yes, Greg. We're very close."

She glanced over at the kitchen doorway. Wilson's shadow was thrown against the cabinets. He was standing there, listening to their conversation. Probably more out of concern for his best friend than plain old nosiness, but it still annoyed her a bit.

The stomach-turning stench of Spaghetti-O's was drifting in. She needed to get out of there and she needed House to come with her.

"You're not lying to me?" The underlying sadness in his question was gut-wrenching, as if confirmation of what he was questioning would be the straw that finally broke him. "Am I bad person, Lisa? Is that why all this is happening?"

He was so unsure, so unlike his old self. His old self would be furious, ranting, pacing, demanding to have all the answers five minutes ago. Or maybe he was just too tired to be angry. He needed to lay down before he wound up sprawled on the living room floor.

"I'm not lying to you. You're a good man," she said softly, then leaned and gave him a kiss on the cheek as gentle as her words. He flinched slightly, but didn't stop her. "You're tired, Greg. Now come lay down with me."

"Okay," he agreed, his voice low and quiet. "Okay."


	7. Chapter 7

They said goodnight to Wilson, then made their way to the bedroom. The hours of sitting on the couch didn't do House's leg much good; he was noticeably wincing with every step he took and grabbing at his right thigh. Under her hands, she could feel his muscles tense and strain like piano wire. Between the tiredness and the alcohol, he was more than ready to crash and burn. His anxiety was probably the only thing keeping him awake.

After helping him into bed, Cuddy got his pills and some water. She stole a look at him as she tipped two pills into his hand. He looked even worse than he did after he fell out of the bed, if that was possible.

She reached over to switch off the lamp, preparing herself for a long night of dozing on and off without any rest. House grabbed her wrist, stopping her hand in mid-air.

"Leave it on, please," he said, the shakiness coming back into his voice.

"If you want," she said, as if it deciding to sleep with the lights on was a normal occurrence.

"I want. Don't turn it off. Not tonight."

"All right. The lamp stays on."

She gave a reassuring smile, then walked over to her side of the bed and climbed in. Some tension still hung in the air, so kept herself at arm's distance, waiting for him to relax.

After she got comfortable, he turned over to face her and commented, "You must spend a lot of time here."

"Quite a lot of time," Cuddy agreed.

"You must. You seem to know where everything is."

With a soft chuckle, she said, "Aside from the hospital, this is my home away from home."

His eyes were drooping, yet he continued with his questions, determined to hear as many answers as he could before sleep overtook him. "You don't seem to mind looking after me. You seem to do that a lot."

"Does that bother you?"

"No. This isn't the first time you've comforted me during a bad time, is it?"

"I've done it before and I'll do it again. We're a couple and that's what couples do for one another. You've done the same for me," Cuddy answered crisply, making sure her point cut through his thick haze of scotch and exhaustion.

It must have as he gave her a weak smile. "I see," he said, the shakiness being replace with a slurring. He wasn't going to last much longer, but he still had at least one more question left in him. "How long have we been together?"

"About a year and a half."

"But we don't live together."

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's...," she struggled for the right words, trying to keep down the flood of emotions that was threatening to carry her away. "It's kind of...complicated and difficult to explain."

"You mean that I'm the one who is complicated and difficult, don't you?"

"You can be, yes." No reason to lie.

"Okay." Oddly satisfied with what he'd heard, he stretched out and closed his eyes. Cuddy knew he wasn't going to be opening them again for at least a few hours. "Tell me all about my difficult self tomorrow," he muttered.

"I will. Goodnight, Greg."

After a few minutes, she took his bandaged hand, planted a soft kiss on his mouth, then watched him sleep.

* * *

It was nearly 4am when Detective Robert Goren haphazardly balanced a pile of notes, mail and packages in one hand, unlocked the door to his apartment with the other and stepped inside. 

The drive back to New York City took forever; a nasty blood-on-the-pavement accident had traffic backed up into oblivion. At least he and Eames were able to bounce various theories and scenarios off each other while the SUV was stranded in a sea of cars.

Goren had a suspect. A very good suspect. Then Eames had to remind him that there wasn't a shred of proof. Said suspect wasn't about to leave her prints or DNA on the envelope. Even if she did send the card, she more likely than not had someone else write the message. And Dr. House wasn't exactly offering up any more reliable clues or evidence at the moment.

They only thing they could even be halfway sure about was the kidnapper had been watching Dr. House for a while, and knew he was friends with a pair of New York detectives.

Goren recalled how House was so anxious and confused when he was brought into the station, how he didn't recognize either of the detectives, how quiet and nervous he was while chewing on the sandwich that they had brought him. Not the House he knew. Dr. House was loud and talkative and abrasive and obnoxious, but Goren couldn't help but like him. House was an acquired taste, just like he was. He shuddered at the thought of how much they had in common: the most obvious being they both solved mysteries for a living; with Goren it was homicides and thefts, with House it was diseases.

Everything in House's wallet was missing except for the pictures and Goren's card. Like someone wanted him to find that card.

A loud yawn escaped the detective and reminded him that he needed to grab a few hours of sleep. He dropped the pile onto the kitchen table. It all landed with scattered thuds.

An envelope caught his eye.

It was a light blue envelope. The kind greeting cards are sent in.


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson sat on the sofa, listening, worried that the rumble of every passing car was masking the sound of the front lock being picked. A steak knife was gripped tightly in his hand. It glinted under the lamp light. The serrated blade would cut someone but good. The same person who had held a butcher knife to his friend's throat most likely wouldn't have any problem doing the same thing to him, or more. The knife made him feel better, but still...he had never hurt anyone in his life and hoped like hell he wouldn't have to find out if he would be able to.

The lights were staying on. He had noticed the soft glow coming from under the bedroom door. They had seen the picture and the card too. He couldn't blame them for a little extra feeling of security. He was willing to bet that the cane was within Cuddy's and House's reach, and that they were ready and willing to use it for something other than to help him walk.

The dust had settled, so to speak, and now in the relative calm in the eye of the storm he found his mind turning over various scenarios of the whole messy situation. What had really happened during those five days?

Judging from the sick little Get Well card, the kidnapper had done this sort of thing before, or at the very least had many dress rehearsals.

House seemed certain that he had heard a woman's voice and Wilson had to accept that until proven otherwise. For a split second he tossed around the idea of Stacy carrying out some bizarre revenge, but dismissed nearly as soon as the thought arrived. She wasn't capable of such a thing. Besides, for the sake of argument, if she _was_ the kidnapper, why would she let him go if he was able to identify her as the person who had committed a rather disturbing crime. House would have recognized her voice. Wilson was inclined to believe that the kidnapper didn't know about the amnesia. So if Stacy the alleged kidnapper had been counting on that to protect her, she was a bigger idiot than Wilson had given her credit for.

Stacy had been gone for years, and House had only met Goren and Eames about a year ago. Why would they matter to her? Why would Stacy care about them at all?

That was an interesting question. A very interesting question. Wilson could answer that one. Because it wasn't Stacy.

Next question, please.

Why were the detectives mentioned in the message on the card?

The kidnapper seemed to know the detectives. Does that mean the detectives know the kidnapper?

Interesting questions. No answers for those yet.

He knew said detectives were pondering those questions themselves, but he called Goren's number anyway and left a message on his voice mail. All the booze and bad food was making the room tilt and his mind feel fuzzy. He put the knife down before he stabbed himself with it and flopped back on the sofa with a forearm covering his eyes. The questions were still spinning around his mind when he finally fell asleep.

* * *

Less than five hours later Wilson stumbled into the kitchen and filled the kettle up until water was splashing out of the spout. He felt groggy, thick, slow, and a good jolt of caffeine was just what he needed. 

The only sound in the apartment was the hiss of the flames on the stove; Wilson realized he hadn't heard a peep out of his friends since they retreated to the bedroom. Unable to resist the urge to check on them, he made his way to the bedroom door and put his ear against it. Nothing. He lightly tapped the door and called out, "House? Cuddy?" just loud enough for them to hear before opening it up and peaking inside.

Cuddy was sitting up in the bed, a pile of pillows cushioning her against the headboard. Across her lap was another pillow and a sleeping House was resting against it. Wilson knew that House had let himself get closer to Cuddy than anyone else, and that was a very good thing, but he hadn't really taken the time to think about the opposite until he had opened that door. The way she had her arm draped around House's back and shoulder, the way the blankets were pulled up to ward off the morning chill, the way she was so _protective_ of the man who didn't remember who she was, it struck a nerve in Wilson that reverberated down the his core.

Her tense shoulders relaxed at the sight of her friendly visitor. She glanced down at her bedmate, then back up Wilson and put a finger against her lips.

"I'm making coffee," he said softly, suddenly feeling sheepish at interrupting the quiet and intimate moment she was enjoying with House. "I can bring you a cup if you want."

"No, thank you."

"You sure? It's no trouble at all."

"Maybe later," she said, looking back down at the sleeping doctor. "He woke up after sleeping for two whole hours last night, and only closed his eyes again about forty minutes ago."

"What about you, Dr. Cuddy?"

She gave him a weak, tired smile. "I was getting ready to try and push him over so I can have some room to lay back down. I woke up when he did and haven't closed my eyes since."

"I didn't mean to disturb you," Wilson said, turning to leave. "I'll make sure there's plenty of coffee when you two get up."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll see you later."

"Wilson?"

He paused at the door. "Yes?"

"Thanks for checking on us."

"No problem."

He stepped out and carefully pulled the door closed, the click of the latch softer than his footsteps walking away.


	9. Chapter 9

Cuddy managed to gently nudge House over without too much trouble, giving her just enough to stretch out and get some feeling back in her legs. God, she had once stayed awake for three days straight during final exams in med school and hadn't felt this exhausted. It was amazing that House wasn't crankier, given the long bouts of insomnia he often suffered through.

He opened his eyes and glanced around the dusky room. Apparently not interested in anything he saw, he closed them again and half-buried himself under the covers. Feeling chilly without his body heat, she edged over until they were touching and rested her head against his shoulder.

Cars and trucks rumbled by. Shouts echoed down the street. Outside, the world went on as usual. Let it. She didn't care about the outside world the four walls of the bedroom. She wasn't missing anything. All that mattered was the man sleeping next to her.

She draped an arm across him and clasped his hand.

"This is nice, boss," he murmured.

In an instant her eyes flew open and she sat straight up in the bed, still gripping his hand so hard that she nearly wrenched it from his wrist.

_Boss_. His pet name for her. It was odd, but it fit and he always called her that with complete and sincere affection.

"Ooowwww...," House muttered and scowled as he pulled his hand free. "That _hurts_."

"Greg," she said breathlessly as her heart hammered in her chest. "What did you just call me?"

He looked up at her with glazed and unfocused eyes. "Hmm? What?"

"What did you just call me?"

"Nothin'."

"Greg–"

"I dunnnoooo..."

"You just called me–"

He waved a hand impatiently at her, then turned over and pulled the blankets over his head like a little boy afraid of the dark. "Be quiet. Elizabeth might hear you."

Cuddy's brow furrowed. She didn't know anyone with that name, and as far as she knew, neither did House. "Who's Elizabeth?" she asked, pulling the blankets off his head, static making his hair go every which way.

_I heard a woman's voice._

"Greg, who's Elizabeth? Did she do this to you? Greg?"

_She kept talking about you, Lisa, and how it was too bad that you weren't there to watch._

House didn't answer. He was asleep.

* * *

"Dr. Wilson? This is Detective Eames." 

"Alex!" Wilson exclaimed into the phone. "I left a message for Goren. Did he get it?"

"Yes, that's why I'm calling." She paused for a few seconds, then asked, "How are you all doing? How's Dr. House?"

"He's doing alright. He's sleeping right now. So is Cuddy."

"I'm afraid we're going to have to wake them up," the detective said, sounding sincerely apologetic. "We're getting ready to come back down there. We have a few things to talk about."

"Things? You mean the kidnaping, right? With what happened to House?"

"Yes, it has everything to do with the kidnaping."

Wilson felt his stomach tie itself in a knot. "This isn't good, is it?"

"No. Some things have come up and...it's better if Bobby tells you. He can tell you all about it better than I can."

"Why didn't he call me? I left the message on his voice mail."

"He asked me to return your call," she explained. "I had to peel him off the ceiling when I got here this morning. He didn't sleep a wink last night; he's downstairs banging his head against the wall on a four espresso high and babbling at about a hundred miles an hour. I got three hours of sleep last night, so I'm the sane one around here and would make a little more sense on the phone."

"Good God..."

"The thing is, this case has hit a little too close to home, Dr. Wilson."

"For who?"

"For my partner."

"What? I don't understand–"

"Let him explain it. I can't do it justice."

"Okay."

"We're on our way."

"I'll have some coffee waiting for you."

"Thank you. You wouldn't happen to have any decaf for Bobby, would you?"

"Sorry, just the regular stuff."

"Damn. I guess I'll have to talk him down later. See you in about an hour or so."

"See you later, Alex."

Wilson hung up the phone. He decided to let House and Cuddy sleep another half hour.


	10. Chapter 10

It was time to wake them up, so Wilson knocked on the bedroom door. No answer except for House's faint snoring. He wished he could just let them sleep, and opened the door with a huge sense of regret. The room was dark as the blinds were closed. He walked over and clicked on the lamp. Pale golden light flooded the room and he was able to discern the tangle of shapes on the bed.

For the second time that morning Wilson was struck by the sight of House and Cuddy's intimacy.

House was on his back and Cuddy was using his chest as a pillow. Wilson could easily picture her falling asleep while listening to the sound of his heartbeat. Then he noticed that his friend an arm wrapped around her back, a mirror of the protectiveness she had shown him earlier that morning. House may not remember who the hell he was, or who she was, or what a merciless bastard he could be; but the connection with the woman in his bed obviously hadn't been wiped out with everything else.

Another wave of regret washed over Wilson as he reached over and shook Cuddy's shoulder.

Her eyes snapped open, wide and alarmed.

"It's just me." Wilson took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze as her eyes focused. Behind her, House began to mumble and stir. "It's okay."

"God, Wilson," she grumbled and scowled. "Do that again and I'll fire you."

"Don't shoot the messenger. Believe me, I didn't want to wake you two up, but Bobby and Alex are on their way. It's important."

"Really?" That woke Cuddy up a bit. "So soon? Have they made a break in the case?"

"The cops are coming back?" House asked, rubbing his eyes.

Wilson answered, "Yes, they'll be here in a little while. Something's happened. Alex said Bobby would explain it. She said it hit him close to home. I'm sorry...but I don't think it's going to be good news."

"Oh God," Cuddy moaned. "What the hell is going on _now_?"

"We'll find out when they get here."

"I guess we will. Nothing we can do until then. Help Greg up, will you?" Cuddy climbed out of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

"Sure." Wilson didn't get up right away, instead he stared out the door for a moment, then turned back to his friend. "How's the leg?"

"It hurts," House said with a frown.

Wilson grabbed the Vicodin off the night stand and handed them over.

"I live with this constant pain," the diagnostician said, tipping a into his palm.

"Yes."

"And I'm not a very easy person to like, am I?"

"You're a misanthrope," Wilson said bluntly, as if that explained everything. He noticed that his friend didn't seem to be particularly surprised to hear it. "You were like that before the infarction."

"So I've been a jackass from the beginning. That might explain a few things." House nodded towards the bathroom. "What's her story?"

"What do you mean?"

"Last night she said that I'm difficult and complicated. You just said I'm a misanthrope. Yet she hasn't left my side for two days now."

"She loves you."

House smiled at Wilson's answer. "I noticed. But why?"

"That's hardly for me to say. You'll have to ask her."

"I will. I couldn't help but notice that you've stuck around for the last two days as well."

"We're friends."

"We must be very good friends, Jason."

"James," Wilson corrected, hoping his exasperation didn't come through on his voice. "It's James."

"Oh, that's right." House seemed embarrassed, and Wilson had to bite back his trepidation. Why couldn't he remember his name? "That's right."

"No problem. C'mon, we should look half-way alive when Bobby and Alex get here."

He helped House out of bed and into the kitchen. Any other time House would have bitched him out and made his own way just to prove that he could. Now he didn't seem to mind the help, at least this time. And Wilson didn't mind not hearing his friend let loose a string of expletives.

They sat at the table, quietly drinking coffee and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. Cuddy finally rejoined them, and Wilson noticed that she had cleaned up: her hair was tied back and she had changed into jeans and plain blue tee-shirt. Wilson suddenly felt like a hobo in his rumbled clothes, but was too tired to get up and do something about it. She poured herself some coffee and sat at the table, across from her lover.

"Greg?" Cuddy asked softly.

The oncologist heard the uneasiness in her words and looked up.

"Greg," she continued without waiting for House to acknowledge that he had heard her. "Who's Elizabeth?"

The diagnostician closed his eyes and slammed down his cup. Hot liquid erupted from it like a fountain, splattering all over the table and dripping down the walls. Wilson jumped out of his seat. Cuddy remained where she was, determined to get the answer.

"How do you know that name?" He was trembling again, his breath coming in quick, short gasps. His face had drained to a chalky white, just as it had been when he read the card. Cuddy could see he was dangerously close to completely falling apart.

"Last night you told me to be quiet or else Elizabeth might hear me. Do you remember that?"

"No," he answered, biting his lower lip.

"She's the one who...who took you. Isn't she?" Cuddy pressed on. The truth had to come out sooner or later. "She's the one who did this?"

"Yes." His voice alarmingly weak.

"Who is she? Do you know her?"

House steepled his arms and rested his head against them. "No, I don't know her. But she knew me, and she knows Bobby."


	11. Chapter 11

"How does she know Bobby?" Cuddy asked.

House didn't answer, he just looked at the mess on the table that was now dripping all over the floor, like he just noticed that his drink was no longer in the cup. He started to get up, then Wilson said, "It's alright. I'll get it," and grabbed a handful of paper towels. House scooted his chair out of the growing puddle.

"Greg, how does she know Bobby?" Cuddy asked again.

"She knows him well, at least it appears she does," the diagnostician replied, not directly answering her question. "She talked about him a lot. She knew his birthday, that he was in the Army, his mother is schizophrenic, that his father walked out on the family, that he has a brother with a gambling problem."

Wilson looked up, the sopping paper towels stopped in mid-swipe. "Is all that true?"

"Bobby was in the Army. He's mentioned that before," Cuddy said. "I asked him about his family once and he said he didn't want to talk about them. He was more than a bit curt about it. I got the feeling that his family was a sore spot for him. I can see why, if that stuff about his mother and father is true."

The oncologist tossed the dripping mess into the trash can, then walked over to face his friend. "Your memory is coming back."

"I suppose it is," House replied absently, like it wasn't any big deal.

"Do you remember anything else about this Elizabeth and–"

"Jimmy...don't."

Wilson smiled a bit at the sound of his name. "Don't _what_?"

"Don't start pushing me," House said with a sigh. He looked away and frowned. "Some of these returning memories I don't want. I don't want them at all."

"Greg," Cuddy began, reaching across the table to envelope his hands in hers. "I know this can't be easy for–"

"She threatened to kill you, Lisa," the diagnostician broke in, anger and fear played across his pale face. He drew his hands out of her reach.

Cuddy gulped, and felt her insides go hollow.

"She kept joking about she should do it–with a knife? With a gun? Maybe she should poison Dr. Cuddy and watch you die slowly and painfully. The bitch_ tortured_ me with that for _days_. So no, it's not easy for me to know that she's still out there and might be on her way back here to turn her threats into a promise. Now I'm not saying another word about it until the detectives get here. I'll tell them what they need to know...until then, just stop pushing me, alright? Just...don't. Not now."

The kitchen went silent. Images swirled in Cuddy's mind, bleak images of the knife against House's throat and his fear, _their_ fear, that someday there might be a picture or two of the knife against her throat and the blade won't stop at her skin. House had thought about what the other pictures might look like in those lost days from the 'joking' descriptions put forth by Elizabeth. For hours and hours he had thought about some terrible pictures that might one day exist. That certainly tortured him more than his leg ever could.

Cuddy broke the deafening silence and said, "Okay, okay. You don't have to talk about it right now if you don't want to." Her voice was low and calm. A soothing voice that tells him that she will always be there for him no matter how bad it gets. She reached across the table again and took his hands. He didn't resist. "Let's wait for them on the sofa. It'll be more comfortable for your leg."

House made no effort to resist her suggestion either and let himself be led to the sofa. No shrugging off her efforts to help. No snarky remarks about her playing nurse-maid. No demands for his pills. No clicking on the television for background noise. Wilson followed them and settled into the easy chair. More silence. The silence of waiting for the truth to come out.

The detectives arrived ten minutes later. As Wilson let them in, he noted the dark smudges of exhaustion under their eyes, particularly Goren's. His muddy brown eyes had red streaks shooting through them. The guy looked ready to be embalmed. He was so wired on caffeine that his hands were twitching.

Eames accepted a cup of coffee and sat at the other end of the sofa. Goren refused Wilson's offer of the easy chair, preferring to pace up and down the room. Too wired to sit still. The hour-plus drive to Princeton probably didn't help either. Eames must be the most patient and understanding cop on the planet if she managed to keep herself from strangling him on the way over.

"Her name is Elizabeth," House began before the detectives could even begin to ask their questions. "At least that's what she called herself." He looked up at Goren. "She told me all about you, Bobby. About your schizophrenic mother and how your father abandoned you."

Goren froze. A nerve had definitely been hit. "Yes, that's true," he confirmed, a trace of iciness in his words, and unzipped a big leather folder. He pulled out a large picture and handed it to House. It showed a thirty-something woman with long blonde hair and a curling smile.

"That's her." House tossed the picture onto the table as if just touching it might cause some disease to spread.

Cuddy spoke up, "Do you know her, Bobby?"

"Yes, I do. Unfortunately, I know her." He sputtered a humorless chuckle. "Her name isn't Elizabeth, it's Nicole Wallace. Elizabeth is one of her favorite aliases. She's a con artist and a killer and probably the most dangerous woman I've ever had the misfortune of coming across."

"A killer?" Wilson gasped.

"Yes, she's a killer. A serial killer," Goren told the doctors. "She's killed around a dozen people and murdered her own daughter in Australia. She denies murdering her daughter and insists she'd make a good mother."

"Good God," Cuddy whispered latched onto her lover's hand.

House glanced between the two detectives. "So what the hell does all that have to do with me? Where do I fit into all this?" he demanded. "I don't know her."

Goren said, "I know you don't, but that hardly matters to her, Dr. House."

"Answer me, Bobby. What does this have to do with me?"

The detective looked the diagnostician in the eye. "Nothing. It has nothing to with you and everything to do with me."


	12. Chapter 12

"I'm sorry, Dr. House," said Goren. Judging from the weary look on the detective's face, Cuddy could see that they would never understand just how sorry he was.

House looked up, confused. "Sorry for what?"

"I never meant for you to be dragged into this."

"You couldn't have known." Eames said and gave a stern, disapproving look to her partner. They had probably been arguing about it all the from New York, and Goren would still blame himself until the end of time.

"No, you couldn't have known what she would do," Wilson agreed, glancing between Goren and House.

"But how do you know it _is_ her?" Cuddy asked. "Did you find her fingerprints on the card? Are you sure she's the one responsible? I know Greg identified her picture, but–"

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy, I'm very sure."

"How?" Cuddy asked again, a trace of impatience creeping in.

"I got a card," the detective answered flatly, turning his attention back to the diagnostician. "The same night you got your card, Dr. House, there was a card waiting for me. There was another picture of you. In this one you were awake and looking at the camera. Do you remember her taking your picture?" House shook his head, and Goren waved off the doctor's non-verbal answer like it didn't really matter one way or the other. "Anyway, there was a message in it. It read...let's see if I remember how it goes, 'That gimp friend of yours was just the beginning, Bobby. You took Gwen away from me, so now I'm going to take away a few things from you.'"

"Who's Gwen?" The Dean of Medicine furrowed her brow.

"A young girl Nicole wanted to be a mother to."

The air in the room was heavy with Goren's words. Everyone was silent as it all sank in. Cuddy leaned in closer to her lover, and leaned in even closer when he put his arm around her shoulder, just the way he does when they sit there eating popcorn and watch their shows.

"_Gimp_," House snorted, and Cuddy could feel some tension start to knot up in him again. "The bitch has a lot of nerve, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does," Goren had to agree. "She blames me for taking away her chance at having a real family. A killer who wants nothing more than to be a mother again. It would be hilarious if it weren't so damned frightening–"

"How did she get you out of your apartment?" Eames spoke up, interrupting her partner before he launched into an endless tangent.

"She knocked on the door," House replied, surprised that he knew that. He noticed that everyoe in the room was hanging on his every word. "She asked me if I knew who owned the motorcycle out front because someone had slashed the tires. Her voice...she had an accent. An English accent, or maybe it was Australian."

The blonde detective leaned forward in the easy chair. "What happened after that?"

The blue-eyed man frowned and struggled to remember. "I don't know," he finally said and sighed, defeated for the moment.

Eames pressed on. "You're starting to remember things. Are you sure you don't remember anything else from–"

"I mean...I remember being pissed. Somebody slashed my tires? Of course I would be pissed. I got up and unlocked the door to go out and take a look...and that's it." He looked over at Goren again. "You think she chose me because I'm a gimp? Easy pickings?"

"She chose you because you're a friend of mine," Goren answered. "And you just happen to be crippled."

House chuckled humorlessly and muttered, "That makes me feel _so_ much better."

"Do you really think she will go after another friend of yours?" Wilson looked nervously at the detectives, as if he expected them to blow up and yell at him for suggesting such a thing.

"I know she will," said Goren, his eyes dark and glassy, voice barely audible.

The oncologist said, "One of us? Or maybe House again?"

"There's no telling who she'll go after next, or what she'll be capable of next time. There will be a next time and all I can do is hope I can see it coming."

"She could have killed me, but she didn't," House suddenly blurted out. "Why?"

Goren looked puzzled. "That's a good question. I wish I could answer it."

"All she had to do was shoot me when I opened the door. But she dragged me all the way to New York."

"She saw that you had my card and left it where you would find it. She wants me to know exactly what she's doing and why."

"Elizabeth liked my spirit." House chuckled again flatly. More tension was creeping into him. Cuddy grasped his arm tighter and hoped he would keep himself under control.

Eames frowned at the strange comment. "Did she tell you that?"

"Yes. She told me that right after I managed to get an arm free and slapped her across the face. She said I reminded her of you in a lot of ways, Bobby, except I don't have a loony mother that I keep locked up in a nuthouse."


	13. Chapter 13

Detective Robert Goren considered his ability to keep his temper in check a great asset, especially when it came to interrogating an endless stream of killers, thieves and pathological liars. Impatience led to mistakes and mistakes led to the bad guy waltzing out the door, let go on some half-assed technicality. Therefore he looked over the evidence carefully, picking through every piece until he had what he needed to nail the bad guy. He wasn't easily rattled, and he made damn good and sure that they saw that. He could see their tricks and lies, and made sure they saw that, too. One punk actually had the gall to slap him. Goren just laughed in the kid's face. The brat is now spending the rest of his sorry excuse of a life in prison for murder.

_Who has the last laugh now? Ha ha. Hope you enjoy eating prison food for the next fifty or sixty years, you little shit._

Then Nicole Wallace came along. She wasn't easily rattled either, and she could push his buttons just as easily as she could hit speed-dial on her telephone. God, she could push his buttons on just about anything she could think of–his mother, his father, his brother, his marital status, his job, his partner. _Anything_.

She had been calling herself Elizabeth Hitchens back when they first crossed paths. Nicole, Elizabeth, no matter what name she was using, she was still a murderer and world-class manipulator. She could get anyone to do just about anything for her, including lie, cheat, steal and kill.

_She said I reminded her of you in a lot of ways, Bobby, except I don't have a loony mother that I keep locked up in a nuthouse_.

Oh, that was pure Nicole.

She loved to goad him about his mother, loved seeing him wince at the slightest mention of her mental illness. She was one of the few people who could get under his skin and the bitch knew it.

His mother was dead now. She had lost her battle with lymphoma. Strange that Nicole Wallace didn't mention that little fact in her message, rub his face in it. Either she just plain old didn't know about his mother's passing or she was saving it for a special occasion.

_She just wanted a family and I took that away...she can't control what she is. _

_Nicole loves to point out my mistakes..._

"Bobby!"

Eames and the doctors were staring at him with concern and confusion. He must have put on quite a show.

"Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down for a while," Eames said.

"I'm fine. Sorry," Goren mumbled. "Where were we?"

_The bitch can get under my skin even when she's not around. She probably knows that, too._

"I slapped her," House reminded him.

"Right," Goren picked up where he left off, like his friends being kidnaped by his worst enemy was an everyday occurrence. "And she wasn't mad at you for that?"

"She was surprised. Guess I can't blame her for that. But then she tied my arm back down, slapped me right back and laughed it off. I got her pretty good, too. Her nose was bleeding. That fucking bitch..."

"Interesting."

"Interesting? This is just _interesting_ to you?" House shot a laser-beam that could have peeled the varnish off the coffee table and make the medical journals sitting on top of it burst into flames. "Why didn't she kill me, Bobby? You've figured out why, haven't you?"

No answer.

"Haven't you?" House's patience was wearing dangerously thin.

"I think so," the detective responded.

"Don't give me that. You_ know_. Why did she let me go?"

"She wanted me to believe that she was getting her life back together. A new family, a new start. Nicole Wallace, the wife and soccer mom. I wasn't buying it for a second–"

"Like you would," Eames snorted.

"–I told her that she wouldn't be able to control her homicidal impulses. She would end up killing someone else, it was just a matter of time. You, Dr. House, were let go to prove me wrong."

"Are you wrong, Bobby?" Cuddy asked carefully.

Goren looked at the doctors, then at his partner. Eames stared right back at him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"No, I'm not wrong. Not about her. The only thing letting you go proves is that she let you go. That's all. It doesn't change the fact that she killed her three-year-old daughter out of jealousy. It doesn't change the fact that she killed her lovers. One good deed doesn't clean her slate. And as she wrote on my greeting card, you were just the beginning."

Wilson asked, "Beginning of what, exactly?"

The detective sighed and said, "She'll let me know soon enough. She doesn't want me to forget about her."


	14. Chapter 14

No memories with any usable, pertinent details came back to House. That didn't stop Goren's questions. A runaway train couldn't stop Goren's questions.

"She kept you in a room?" Goren asked.

"A dark, ugly little room," House answered with a scowl.

"What was in it?"

"A table and two chairs on one side. A mattress on the floor on the other side. The place smelled like mold and garbage. She gave me granola bars to eat and bottled water to drink."

"Any windows?"

"Two small windows. They were so damn filthy I couldn't see anything out of them. I had a feeling there wasn't much to see out of them anyway."

"What about noise? Did you hear music, cars, people?"

"I don't remember hearing any other people. I heard car horns and sirens every now and then, but they sounded faint and far off."

"What else?"

"That's pretty much it, Bobby. I was tied up in a dark, ugly little room with dirty windows. That's all there was."

And that's all House could remember at the moment, much to Goren's very obvious frustration.

Nothing else to do, nothing else could be done. Everyone had to admit that they were ready to crash and burn.

The detectives finished up with all the details about Nicole Wallace aka Elizabeth Hitchens they could offer and said their goodbyes, adding "be careful" and "call us if you need anything, anything at all". Goren in particular looked dead on his feet. Cuddy realized that's why he didn't sit down and kept pacing around the room; he was keeping himself awake. Underneath Goren's exhausted exterior, Cuddy could see a spark in his tired eyes. It was the same spark House had when he was working on a difficult case. Through her thick and waning caffeine buzz she found herself wondering if the detective suffered from long bouts of insomnia like House did. Given that Goren saw the lowest forms of humanity in action every day of the week, insomnia was probably in his job description.

Wilson crashed were he was on the sofa and his soft snoring soon filled the living room. No need to worry about House getting some sleep. He let her lead him stumbling to the bedroom and was out as soon as he lay back into the pillow. The urge to take care of him began to rise up and overflow in Cuddy, not that she minded. If House were awake he wouldn't have minded, either. No need for the comforter in the warm weather. She threw it back and pulled the sheet and blanket up to his shoulder. He was warm and safe and sleeping–everything she could ask for. Well, almost everything. She changed back into the Jack Daniel's shirt and slid into the bed with him.

He was on his left side, as usual, facing her. If she wasn't so damned tired herself she would have just watched him sleep. As it was she could feel her eyelids drooping, feeling like they were weighed down with bricks. She took his bandaged hand pulled it to her chest, holding it like a teddy bear. Hopefully his dreams would be free of Elizabeth.

* * *

She woke up to find her fingers still curled around House's bandaged hand, and smiled at the sight. The diagnostician was still long gone and she smiled at that, too. Who knew when he would get the chance to get some decent sleep again. 

For the next twenty minutes or so she let herself drift into la-la land and indulged her favorite hobby of watching her lover sleep. Watching his chest rise and fall. Listening to his steady breathing. Hugging him close and running her fingers through his hair. Indulgence at its finest. She was in heaven.

He stirred a bit and she let go. Let him get some rest. She carefully got out of bed, pulled on some sweatpants, and made a beeline to the kitchen.

Out in the living room she passed a zonked out Wilson. He was stretched out on the sofa, facing the cushions. All she could see were his wrinkled shirt and pants and a mop of brown hair. She was careful not to disturb him, either.

The coffee was getting critically low, and the food level was beyond low. Nothing left to feed the three of them but Spaghetti-O's. How either of them could eat that slop she would never know. It smelled like dog food and tasted just as good. Barely one cup of milk left. One lonely can of chicken noodle soup. Some petrified potatoes. She couldn't stand it anymore. She was starving and needed some real food and they would be starving when they woke up. Ordering take-out would just be a quick fix to this lingering problem. It wasn't enough. Cuddy got dressed, left a note on the table, and grabbed her purse.

The shopping cart was full, but not too full by the time she got to the checkout lane. She didn't want to overdo it and got a few frozen pizzas and family sized lasagna dinners for the three of them to split over the next few days. Some chips, crackers, and sodas for House. Some fresh fruit for Wilson. A container of soy milk for herself. A trashy romance paperback she was going to hide in her purse before going back to the apartment.

The groceries were stuffed into the trunk and the lid was slammed shut.

"Dr. Cuddy?"

A woman's voice. She had an accent.

Before the thought could fully register, Cuddy turned around at the sound of her name. Then she felt her eyes burn with mace and her nose break with a sickening crack under a vicious swing of a fist.


	15. Chapter 15

Any moron with half a brain could see that Gregory House and Lisa Cuddy were crazy about each other. Wilson had to admit that he was skeptical about their chances, but was more than pleased when they defied the odds and thumbed their noses at the critics. House wasn't exactly the easiest person to be friends with, let alone live with, yet Cuddy stuck by his side like glue day after day, and House was smart enough to see that she was well worth hanging on to. He bought her chocolates. He played the piano for her. He smiled when he talked about her. He was madly in love with her. Even the amnesia couldn't touch it. So when the phone rang and the news of Cuddy being attacked in the grocery store parking lot reached House's ears, Wilson wasn't all that surprised to see his friend go utterly and completely ballistic.

"That fucking _bitch_!" House screamed as he hurled his cup of coffee across the living room. It smashed against the wall, leaving a dark splash and a litter of broken ceramic. "That bitch!"

"House!" Wilson cried, jumping up from the easy chair, worried as he watched the diagnostician's face go fire-engine red.

Sure, House had had more than his fair share of anger. But this wasn't anger. Not even close. This was full-on, good old-fashioned insane rage.

The cane became a weapon and crashed into the lamp. It was in many pieces before it hit the floor, the now unshaded bulb flickering and casting giant shadows until a second blow from the cane finished the job.

"The fucking bitch!" House continued to bellow as he kept on swinging the cane over and over, obliterating what was left of the lamp. "Why can't she leave us alone?"

"House, stop it!"

"What does she want? What the fuck does she want from us?"

"House!"

"Just leave us alone! Just leave us the hell alone!"

Wilson saw his chance when his friend's back was turned. One arm wrapped around House's waist to hold him still and the other arm knocked the cane away. He kicked it out of their reach. "House! Calm down, just calm down." His friend struggled against his grip, but Wilson wouldn't give an inch. If he let go, House was going to wreck his entire apartment. "Cuddy's going to be fine. Alright? Just calm down..."

Those words seemed to strike a chord within House and he gave up his struggle, even if he was still panting and shaking with anger. He looked at the mess on the floor, seeming to notice just what he had done in his blind rage. Running a hand through his now damp hair, he moaned, "Oh Christ, Jimmy..."

Wilson steered his friend away from the pile of broken glass that used to be the lamp and back onto the sofa. He cupped House's face in both hands and forced him took make eye contact. "She's going to be fine. Do you hear me? Cuddy is going to be just fine, " Wilson said in a low and careful voice. House nodded, much to the oncologist's relief. "Okay. Now just relax and calm down. I'll sweep up the mess and then we're going to pick her up. Okay?"

House nodded again. Wilson watched his friend lean back into the cushions and close his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths, then he got up to look for a broom.

* * *

Ninety minutes later Cuddy wobbled back into the apartment bandaged, bruised, doped to the gills on pain meds, one knee of her jeans torn to shreds. She threatened violence and to fire them both if she was forced to leave House's side. They decided to let her have her way for a while to avoid any more unnecessary bloodshed and Wilson fetched a pillow. She made House sit on the sofa with the pillow on his lap and she made herself comfortable, stretching out and resting against him. She sighed contentedly, closed her bloodshot eyes, and was out like the broken lamp in two seconds. 

The phone was within House's reach and he grabbed it, punching in the phone number that was on a card in his wallet, a card that behind Lisa Cuddy's picture. Wilson watched as he left a message for the detectives, and noticed that he was lightly stroking her neck, continuing to run his fingers softly against her skin long after he had hung up the phone.

* * *

"Jimmy, take her to the bedroom, please." 

Wilson was startled out of his thoughts. He looked over and saw House scowling and shifting uncomfortably. His friend's leg was flaring up. He had been sitting there for hours and Cuddy hadn't moved an inch.

The oncologist walked over and carefully hoisted his boss into his arms, being extra diligent to not bump her swollen and bandaged nose. She doesn't resist, still unconscious, as limp as a rag doll. House swiped his Vicodin and her pain meds off the table and followed.

_Why did you have to hurt her, Elizabeth? Why didn't you just break my nose instead?_

He watched as Wilson set her on the bed, then muttered, "Thanks. You can leave us alone now."

The oncologist furrowed his brow at that strange comment, but bit his lip as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him without a word.

House took off her jeans and absently tossed them aside, then pulled her tee shirt down as far as it would go. Her knee was scraped and dirty. He went into the bathroom for the peroxide and bandages, aware that Wilson was watching his every move. House didn't spare his friend a glance as he went back to the bedroom, cleaned and bandaged Cuddy's wound, then pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chest.

It was only then House realized that Cuddy was on his side of the bed. He preferred the right side of the bed so he could stretch out on his left side to face her and keep the weight off his bad leg. Waking her up and asking her to move was out of the question, not when she had enough drugs in her system to knock out a water buffalo. Moving her himself was out of the question, too. He'd end up bumping her nose or smacking his leg against a bedpost or both. Asking Wilson to come back in and move her wasn't worth the effort. He sighed, stripped down to his shorts, and figured a few hours on the other side of the bed wasn't the end of the world, even if it did mean he had to be on his right side to face her. He swallowed two Vicodin before climbing under the covers. He left the bedside lamp on.

He slid over until he could hear her breathing and gathered her up into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Lisa," he whispered, and planted a soft kiss on her cheek.


	16. Chapter 16

The only interruption in the afternoon came when Detective Goren returned House's phone call. Goren wanted to talk to Cuddy, and insisted on it even when it was explained that the pain meds did a number on her conversation skills. Only when he heard Cuddy shriek "_Oh, fuck you and fuck your fucking useless book club, too!_"in the background when House tried to put her on the phone did the detective admit that now probably wasn't a good time to ask her some pointed questions about the parking lot assault. House promised to have her call the detectives back herself as soon as she was coherent again.

She was still awake when he hung up the phone. Her eyes were darting around the room like she had never seen the place before. "Where am I?" she asked.

"You're in my bedroom," House answered, sitting on the edge of the bed. His blood began to run cold. "You've been here many times before, remember?"

"_Your_ bedroom?" she puzzled. "In your _house_?"

"My apartment, Lisa. We're in my apartment."

"Oh. Okay." She smiled, oddly satisfied with what she had heard. She curled up and went back to sleep.

House exhaled a huge sigh of relief. Just the medication making her dopey. The broken nose looked worse than it was, and soon she could switch to some over-the-counter meds and be back to her normal self. _The sooner the better_, he thought as he checked the bandages on her nose and knee. They looked just fine. The bandage on his own hand was starting to look dirty. He decided to wait and make Wilson do it later. He climbed back into bed and spooned up behind her, trying to shift some his weight off his right leg. _You're going to be just fine_, he thought and closed his eyes.

Five hours passed in the blink of an eye, and those same five hours were absolute murder on his leg. He took two more Vicodin and paced around the room to get his blood flowing again. After the medicine hit his system and the growling pain settled down to a dull roar, he checked on Cuddy again. Still sound asleep, the blankets pulled up to her ear. She didn't even flinch when he turned on the lamp. He left the lamp on and the door open enough so he could hear her if she called out, and limped to the living room.

Wilson stretched out the full length of the sofa, leaving no room for House to sit. The easy chair wasn't easy on his leg when it was cramping. He needed some room to stretch out himself, and less than subtly jabbed the oncologist with the cane. Wilson sat bolt upright. "What the...?" he began, and froze mid-sentence when he saw the tall man with the cane standing over him. "God, it's just you. Did you really have to wake me up?" Wilson grumbled and swung his legs to the floor.

"You're taking up my sofa, so the answer is yes," House answered, sitting down and switching on the television, finding _Video Justice_ playing on the screen.

"How's Cuddy?" Wilson asked, looking towards the bedroom. He noted the light and the open door.

"She's fine. Still sleeping like a baby."

"I thought I heard her yelling something about books earlier."

"Meds," House said stoically, and Wilson immediately caught his meaning. "You hungry?"

"God, _yes_!"

"You got any cash?"

"About fifty bucks."

"Me too. Mr. Chow's is on speed-dial, number 4. Get a double order of shrimp eggrolls for Lisa, a double order of orange chicken and fried rice for me, some sodas, and whatever you want."

Wilson didn't need to be told twice and was on the phone in three seconds, ordering a mountain of Chinese take-out. He scowled when told that the large order would take a while and relayed that information to House. The diagnostician told the man on the phone that there would be a nice tip for them if they could get the food over real fast. He said they would do their best for a regular customer.

Fifteen minutes into their wait a soft voice drifted across the room: "Greg?"

Cuddy stood in the hallway, wearing nothing but the tee-shirt that barely reached her thighs. She took another wobbly step before Wilson jumped up and guided her to the sofa as House quietly seethed. He should be the one helping her, dammit. If it weren't for his fucking bum leg...nevermind. Cuddy was at the sofa, her eyes still cloudy and dazed. He swallowed his resentment at his inability to rush over to help and smiled up at her, then turned to Wilson. "Go get her a pair of my sweatpants. Bottom drawer." The oncologist disappeared into the bedroom, and House turned back to Cuddy. "What are you doing up, Lisa? Are you feeling okay?"

She nodded as Wilson came back with a well-worn pair of gray sweatpants and her prescription bottle. House held the pants and Wilson helped her step into them, then she sat with a tired sigh next to her lover. "I woke up and you weren't there," she said. "I was scared for a second, then I heard the television..."

"I'm right here," House said. He gave her a reassuring smile and smoothed down some of her unruly hair. "How's your nose? Do you need another pill?"

"No, I'm alright."

"Great. Are you hungry?"

"Starving!"

"There's Chinese on the way. We ordered you some eggrolls."

"Thank you." She frowned a little and furrowed her brow. "Why are you ordering out? Where's all the food I bought?"

"What food?" Wilson asked from the easy chair.

"I bought food for us at the store. It's in the trunk of my car. Didn't anyone bring it in? I put it all in the trunk of my car and someone called my name. A woman with an accent called my name. I turned around and...and..." She began to tremble at the all-too-clear memory no medication could dull. "I turned around and before I could even see who it was something was sprayed in my eyes and she broke my nose. I was on the ground with blood pouring out of my nose and she was _laughing_ at me! She was _laughing at me_..." Cuddy began to sob and buried her face in her hands. The sobs only made everything hurt all over again but she couldn't help it. She could feel House's gentle touch all around her and could hear his voice but not his words. The woman's evil laugh drowned them out. He couldn't reverse her humiliation at the hands of a complete stranger.

She suddenly sat up, choking back her sobs. "Bobby and Alex. Did they come over today?"

"Bobby called earlier," House replied, curious as to why she was asking about the detectives. "He wanted to talk to you, but the meds knocked you out. Why? He knows it was Elizabeth. They're going to catch her, Lisa."

"She had a message for him."

"For Bobby?" Wilson asked.

"Yes. She said to give her best to his dead mother. He should have known the experimental treatment wouldn't have worked. He should have tried something else and it's all his fault that she's dead." She blinked some fresh tears. "My God, how sick is that?"


	17. Chapter 17

"Don't you ever sleep?" Eames asked, noting the dark circles under her partner's eyes looked like bruises. Four-day-old stubble and the harsh overhead lights didn't exactly compliment his ashen complexion. Eames had no doubt that he was able to count the hours he had slept over the last three days on one hand. His bright red tie was in a crumpled ball by his right elbow, a cold cup of coffee and sandwich wrapper nearby. The coffee was well away from easy reach. Yesterday he had knocked it over and spilled it all over his lap. Thankfully the coffee had already been cold then, too.

"There's work to do," Goren replied absently, as if that throw-away answer was exactly what she had been hoping for and maybe now she'll stop badgering him to death. He didn't bother to look up from the file he was studying and had already studied a million times before.

"What's your definition of work?" she asked. "All you're doing is sitting there and reading that damn file again."

"I'm working on our case."

"Do you keep a copy of it under your pillow?"

"I refuse to answer that."

"Okay, answer this–Are you trying to see if you can solve the case without leaving your desk? I can only imagine what Ross will say about _that_."

"Like I said before, I'm working on our case and I'm waiting for Dr. Cuddy to call back."

"Didn't Dr. House say she was spaced out on painkillers?"

"Something like that. Her nose is broken. I'll bet that hurts. Have you ever had a broken nose, Eames?"

"Not that I can recall. Lisa might not call back for hours, or even until tomorrow or the day after, and that's if we're lucky."

Goren looked up and caught her eyes for a moment before he said, "I can wait."

"For how long?" Eames asked, curious to hear his answer.

"As long as it takes."

"Go grab a few hours of sleep. I can talk to her."

"I'd rather talk to her, if you don't mind," he said curtly, then he went back to the file.

The Nicole Wallace file on his desk. It was as thick as a novel and Goren had read it cover to cover many times, but that didn't stop him from going over it one more time to make sure he didn't miss anything. The file appeared and reappeared on his desk at odd intervals, even during lulls in other cases that had nothing to do with any of her crimes.

Eames stole another glance at the man sitting across from her desk. He was absorbed in his reading and paid no attention to her. He was tired and needed some sleep, even if it was just a few hours. But Eames knew her partner. He wasn't going to quit until the case was solved or he passed out from exhaustion, which ever came first. Nicole was one of the few criminals to slip through his fingers. Instead of putting as many miles between herself and Goren as possible like any other sane person would do, she liked to show up every now and then and dare him to catch her. Now here she was again, and Goren was obsessing over her file again.

Eames was worried about him.

The death of his mother, while hardly unexpected, was still a crushing blow to Goren just the same. At the funeral Eames caught him wiping away a tear. In the six years they had been working together that was the first time she had ever seen him cry. When she asked him about it later, he denied it. Then Dr. House called from a payphone in Greenwich Village, giving Goren the perfect reason to avoid having to talk about his mother.

He used to go see her once a week. Sundays, as Eames recalled. Every Sunday, like clockwork. He rarely missed a week and always made it up when he did. Now he leaves flowers at her grave every Sunday. The same rules that applied to his visits will now apply to the flowers.

Nicole Wallace was back. Goren simply referred to her as a sociopath. Eames had another word for her–evil. Pure evil. Evil down to the core. It was a sick game Nicole and Goren played, pushing each other's buttons, messing with each other's heads, trying to find weaknesses to exploit. Eames was more than happy to stay out of that and leave the mind games to the people brave or crazy enough to play them.

What had Nicole done to Dr. House that week? What sort of mind games had been played on him? The blonde detective shuddered at the thought.

It was only a matter of time before Nicole began to prod Goren about his mother. Everyone had a breaking point, even Robert Goren. If anyone could find his breaking point, it was Nicole Wallace. Eames prayed that day would never come, but if it did she hoped that her gun would be loaded and pointed at the black chunk of coal Nicole called a heart.

Goren's phone rang. He snatched it up before the first ring was finished. It was Lisa Cuddy. He smiled, it was weak and tired but still a smile, and asked her how was she was feeling. They chit-chatted for another minute or so then got down to the matter at hand. His smile was long gone by the time the conversation ended half an hour later, with Goren saying that he and Eames would come by the next day. Eames sighed at the thought of battling the SUV through the traffic to Princeton again.

He hung up and stared at the phone. He didn't fill his partner in on what Cuddy had said. He didn't go over some points of the case. He just sat there and stared at the damn phone.

Eames broke the eerie silence. "It was Nicole Wallace, wasn't it?"

Goren nodded, still looking at the phone, and said, "Dr. Cuddy didn't see her face, but said the woman who attacked her had an accent. A British accent. Oh, and she had a message for me."

The temperature over their desks dropped twenty degrees. "It was a message about your mother." It wasn't a question.

Goren nodded again, and Eames saw him blink back a tear.


	18. Chapter 18

House and Wilson sat quietly and munched on their Chinese food while Cuddy talked to Goren on the phone. She had waited until the food had arrived and had eaten an eggroll or two before calling the detective back. It was impossible not hear the sadness and sympathy in her voice when she gave Goren Elizabeth's message. The frown on her face after the message was delivered pretty much told them what they already had guessed–Goren wasn't taking his mother's death very well and Elizabeth's low blow wasn't exactly helping him move on.

Cuddy mumbled, "All right, we'll see you tomorrow. Take care, Bobby," and hung up. She asked for another pill.

House handed her the prescription bottle, then urged her to eat some more. She ate half of an eggroll before pushing the food away.

She swallowed a pill, then looked over at the lamp table and frowned. "Where did the lamp go?"

"I smashed it to pieces," House answered dryly.

"Why?"

"Because it was convenient."

"When did that happen?"

"After I found out you had been attacked at the store."

"Oh."

"I smashed a coffee cup, too. Wilson cleaned it up."

"That was nice of him."

"Yes, it was," Wilson said with a faint smirk.

She yawned and announced she was going back to bed. Wilson started to get up to help her, but she waved him away. House ate the other half of the eggroll as he watched her carefully shuffle back to the bedroom before the pill fully kicked in and she had to be carried back there again. She made it there on her own two legs. The door stayed open.

* * *

An hour later House closed the bedroom door but left the light on. The muted glow of the bedside lamp wasn't forgiving to Cuddy's bruised and bandaged face. Not that House really cared. The bandages would come off eventually. She would be good as new. He could wait. 

She had managed to crawl onto her side of the bed before the painkillers knocked her out cold. The covers didn't quite make it, they were just thrown haphazardly over her legs. House fixed that. She was a little too close to the edge of the bed. He fixed that too, and gently nudged her an inch or two back until she was no longer in danger of rolling right off. That done, he decided to join her even though the sun had barely set. Maybe he'd be up again in a few hours, maybe not. He just wanted to be with Cuddy for a while. He slipped under the covers. Cuddy was sleeping with her back to him. He inched his way over and settled in, running his hand along the curve of her hip.

His body was tired but his mind was restless, and he began to flip through the pages of past week or so. Looking closely he discovered some of the pages remained blank, just chunks of white space floating around between solid paragraphs of events. What happened after he opened the front door for Elizabeth still wasn't filled in. Most of what happened during the week she held him was missing. Only a few odd sentence fragments appeared here and there. Old news, stuff he had already told Goren. Wait...there was something else. Elizabeth knew about his addiction to Vicodin. She held the pills in front of him, shaking the bottle as she watched him squirm in agony and plead for some relief, _beg_ for a pill as sweat dripped into his eyes, the salt stinging them...

He slammed his mind shut. His heart was racing, his breathing fast and shallow. He forced himself to calm down. After what seemed like a long time, his heartbeat slowed, the coldsweat cooled, his breathing steadied. The long minutes continued to tick by. He pulled Cuddy closer, relishing her warmth. He was a little rougher and insistent than he intended, but thankfully didn't wake her up. House knew that if she wasn't knocked out from her medication she'd be paging through her own bad memories. Let her sleep, let her keep the bad memories at bay for a few more hours.

Cuddy moaned _"MMMmmmmm_," and rolled over, tossing off the covers. House smoothed them over her again, then gently maneuvered her until she was on her back, moving her arms away from her face.

Elizabeth probably didn't intend to kill her in such a public place, just scare her. She did a bang-up job, for lack of a better word. She just wanted to scare Cuddy and have her deliver that sick little message to Goren. A message can't be delivered by a dead person.

Did she intend to kill him? Why was he let go? Good question. He would probably never know the answer. He didn't want to know the answer.

Was Elizabeth just warming up? No doubt she was. Who was next on her list? Wilson?

Definite possibility. The only problem was that unless Elizabeth was planning on breaking into the apartment that was called home by no less than three now very paranoid people, she was out of luck. None of them were going out alone in the foreseeable future. All would fight back at the slightest provocation. So Elizabeth was going to have to camp out and wait for who knows how long or move on to someone else.

That someone else was going to be a person close to Robert Goren. Who would it be? Who was closest to Goren now that his mother was gone? Eames?

Alex Eames could take care of herself. She wasn't a New York City detective because of her looks.

House hoped she was watching her back.

He began to leaf back through the pages, skipping random chunks, skimming through the boring stuff until something finally caught his eye. It was the entry from a Halloween night. The night he first kissed Cuddy. He placed a bookmark on that page and kept turning back to it.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I'm taking a much needed and long overdue vacation this coming week, so there might not be any updates in the next 10 days or so. I'll get one up ASAP!_

* * *

221B was unusually quiet so early in the evening. The occupants had crashed and burned. On any other night House would have scoffed at his fellow doctors for turning in before the crack of midnight. The local news wasn't even over yet. But since he crashed right along with them there wasn't much for him to say. 

He dreamt of that Halloween night--As he was about to step out her front door, something in him made him stop. It was a something he had wanted to do for a long time but had never found the right moment to do it. Why he had chosen that moment was still a mystery to him. She had been standing by the door, seeing him on his way like she had always done. He had turned around, gave her a gentle kiss, their first kiss, and left without saying goodbye. He had stood by his motorcycle for a minute or two, waiting for her to come roaring out the door to scream at him, to slap him, to tell him to never set foot on her property again. But she had stayed inside. After a while the porch lights turned off. House later suspected that she had been waiting for the right moment herself, but he had beaten her to it.

It was a little before 2am the pain in his leg gave House a less-than-welcome wake up call from his rather pleasant dream. He unconsciously reached for his pills on the night stand and discovered that he couldn't move; Cuddy was entwined around his limbs like a vine. He couldn't move too much without disturbing her much needed rest or taking the risk of bumping her still tender nose. But damn it all to hell, the knot in his leg was getting tighter, and beads of cold sweat were breaking out along his hairline. He needed those pills and he was going to get them one way or another. Inch by inch House slowly and carefully moved closer to the bottle, bringing Cuddy along for the ride. She didn't make a sound, still lost in her own pill-induced dreamland. After what seemed like hours the Vicodin was mercifully within his reach. The bottle was snagged off the night table, the cap popped off, and two pills were down his throat, all in less than ten seconds. He flopped back onto the pillow with heavy sigh, the pill bottle in one hand and holding onto Cuddy with the other.

Finally the knot began to unravel. The sweat cooled and dried. He lay there and listened to the silence, broken by the occasional passing car and a soft sigh from Cuddy. He placed the pill bottle back onto the night table and relaxed, letting himself enjoy the quiet. It had been a while since he felt that relaxed and comfortable. He shifted over and buried his face in Cuddy's hair, relishing the silence.

4am. House was awake, restless and hungry. Cuddy was still at his side but no longer wrapped around him like a bow on a Christmas present. He sat up and carefully swung his legs over the bed. She grunted, which sounded disapproving to House's ears, before rolling over into his body heat and clutching his pillow like a life preserver. House looked down at her for a moment. Admiring the golden highlights the soft lamp light brought out in her hair, he tried to remember if she was always such a deep sleeper, pain meds aside, and if he was always wide awake at such a ridiculous hour. Vague recollections of her trying to get him to come to bed swirled around the room like a sluggish fly.

_Come to bed, Greg. I don't want to sleep alone._

_I'm not tired. I'll be there later._

So being up and around when it was still dark was nothing new. Then again, considering the circumstances, he did get a decent amount of sleep.

His stomach rumbled. He was starving. He left the light on and went to raid the leftovers.

The kitchen light was on, casting a harsh silver-blue glow onto a sleeping Wilson. The oncologist had left the light on. His own measure of security. Though he had slept with a light on as well, House decided to tease Wilson about it when he woke up. He could always say that Cuddy wanted the light. Then he saw the butcher knife on the table. Extra security. The teasing could wait for a few days. He went into the kitchen.

House stole and ate another eggroll with only the faintest hint of shame, then attacked the orange chicken. He polished that off and was washing it down with the last of his soda when Wilson came lumbering into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee.

"You want some?" Wilson asked, filling up the kettle.

"Sure," House said while looking over his sleepy friend. "I thought I was being quiet."

"You tried. I'll live. Better luck next time."

"Put that knife away before Lisa gets up and sees it."

Without a word, Wilson put the kettle on the stove, shuffled back into the living room, and reappeared with the knife. He put it back into the block and joined House at the table.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to play with knives?" House asked with a raised eyebrow.

Wilson looked up and answered, "I was just being cautious."

"Cautious with a big sharp knife? How do you manage to do that?"

"It's not about the goddamn knife, House," Wilson replied tersely. "So if you would just shut up about it already, that would be nice. If it bothered you so much, why didn't you put the damn thing away yourself?"

House didn't answer since Wilson already knew what the answer was. They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to water come to a boil.

"Do you think she'll come after you?" The diagnostician's question was sincere.

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Is that a _yes_?"

"If you want it to be. I'm not going to take my chances on _no_."

"How long are you going to stay here, Jimmy?"

"I don't know. How long am I welcome here?"

"I don't know."

"How long is Cuddy welcome here?"

"For as long as she wants to stay."

Another few minutes of silence. The kettle began to screech. Wilson got up and poured two cups of coffee.

"I wish I had had that knife when she knocked on my door," House remarked blithely as he took his cup from Wilson's hand.

"Would you have used it?" The oncologist held his breath and waited for the answer.

House paused to take a sip of his coffee, then said, "I didn't know who she was then. I had never heard of her." He turned and looked at the early morning pressing against the window. "But if I knew then what I know now? I wouldn't have given it a second thought."


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: I was in the mood to write something with a little bit of fluff. _

* * *

It was a little after nine in the morning. House had finished his Chinese leftovers and showered, feeling almost like a living, breathing human being again. Then he made a list of groceries and ordered Wilson to call and have them delivered as soon as possible, and to make sure that the delivery person wasn't a blonde woman with an accent before opening the door. They watched some stupefying morning talk show because they were too lazy to change the channel. Then House went to wake Cuddy up. He was surprised when he limped into the bedroom and found her scowling at the alarm clock. 

"Are you okay, Lisa?"

"I'm fine," she replied. "Is it nine in the _morning_?"

"Yup. Feel like getting up to face the world, boss?" House asked as turned on the lamp, sat on the edge of the bed and watched Cuddy blink her bleary eyes.

"Not really," she mumbled and threw the blanket back over her ear.

"I thought you were a morning person."

"Not this morning."

"You just slept thirteen straight hours and you're still tired? Is that normal?"

"It is when you're on meds that knock you on your ass. I want to sleep for thirteen more," was her muffled reply.

"Sorry, boss. Time to rise and shine." House said, uncovering her head.

"I don't want to get up."

House tossed the covers off of her. Cuddy protested and engaged in a futile tug-of-war before surrendering and flopping back onto the pillow. "I'd let you sleep, Lisa, but we're having company today. The finest detectives in New York will be here."

"So?"

"_So_? They're coming here to talk to you, remember?"

"Sort of."

"Do you remember if they said what time they would be arriving?"

"I don't think Bobby mentioned that," Cuddy replied. She knew she to get up right then or she wasn't going to and sat up. "I can only hope they got a few hours of sleep last night. Especially Bobby. He looked ready to drop."

"That he did." He gently cupped her chin and looked pensively down at her face. "How's the nose?"

"Broken."

House gave a low chuckle. "Can't argue with that. How's the pain? Do you need a pill?"

"It's hurting a little but I'll manage. I'd like something over-the-counter so I'm half-way lucid when Bobby and Alex get here. Good God, I'm hungry. Is there anything to eat?"

"There's some leftover eggrolls. Wilson ordered some groceries, but I don't know when they're going to get here."

"I'd pay a thousand dollars for a plate of buttermilk pancakes right now. With extra syrup."

"Sugar free syrup?"

"Of course."

"Me too, but I'm low on cash. It's eggrolls or nothing, boss."

"I guess that's what I'm having. I need some food and a shower. I probably look like a refugee from a Freddy Krueger film."

House chuckled again. "I was going to say a Michael Myers film, but now that you mention it..."

She gave a playful swat on the arm, then dragged her legs over until they were hanging off the bed, not wanting to get up too fast, get lightheaded and pass out. The room swayed for a moment, then stilled. The pain pills and lack of food over the last few days weren't exactly helping her get ready to go back to work. "Please tell me you ordered more coffee," she said with a heavy sigh.

"You better believe I did."

"Thank you! Is there any coffee ready now or did you and Wilson drink it all?"

"I'm sure there's a cup or two left."

"There better be some or I'm going to fire you both with extreme prejudice."

"Hmph...idle threats won't make the coffee get here any faster." He watched as she slowly slid to the floor, and smiled a bit when she walked to the end of the bed without any trouble. "Let's you get some breakfast and a shower, boss. Hopefully the groceries will get here soon and we can make lunch for the detectives. Won't that make a good impression?"

"Since when do you care about what of an impression you make?"

"I don't, but it doesn't hurt to be nice to the people who are tracking down the psycho lady who's after us, don't you think?"


	21. Chapter 21

Everyone was in the kitchen. The smell of strong coffee mingled with the smell of leftovers being reheated in the microwave. Spending the last few days cooped up in House's apartment had given Wilson a unique opportunity to take a few glances at the relationship House and Cuddy liked to keep within the confines of their respective homes. The two lovebirds were chatting with each other, well House talking away and Cuddy was listening, so Wilson stole another glance.

She was sitting across the table while House waited for the food at the microwave. House doing a favor for someone else with nothing in it for him. Wait, there was something in it for him–Time spent with the person he loved. Wilson watched as they chuckled together at a private joke. House was happy, _happy_, when he was around Cuddy. The oncologist leaned back into his chair and took another sip of coffee, hiding his smile. Their relationship should have never worked. How could a notoriously bitter, crippled misanthrope and a savvy, professional administrator end up head over heels for each other? If they ever discoverd the real answer, they should bottle it and sell it.

"Wilson!" House's irritated voice yanked him out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"Can you stop zoning out long enough to get the Pepsi out for us?"

"Pepsi...now? It's not even ten o'clock yet."

"Well, Lisa wants one, so can you get her one, pretty pretty please?" House explained, then let loose a string of obscenities when he burned his hand on the hot plate. "And I want one, so while you're at it–"

"Yeah, yeah...," Wilson muttered, then did what was asked of him. It was a small favor for his friends, plus Cuddy still looked a little shaky on her feet. The favor was mostly for her. He couldn't help but notice that House had insisted that she sit down while he warmed up her eggrolls.

So that was what Gregory House was like behind closed doors with Lisa Cuddy. A decent person showing affection to the person he cared about most in the world. The one person he would do anything for, including heating up Chinese food. Wilson couldn't decide if he wanted to be amused or die from shock.

After their quasi-breakfast the doctors moved into the living room. Wilson once again indulged in his new-found past time of studying the dynamic of his friends relationship. They were on the sofa and he was sitting in the easy chair. He subtly watched them watching television. House was in his usual spot with his feet on the table. Cuddy was snuggling up next to him. His arm was around her shoulder, pulling her closer. Her hand was on his thigh. House was obviously enjoying the contact; a ghost of a smile played on his mouth, a content look brushed across his features.

Pounding at the front door. Everyone jumped. A squeaky male voice called "Groceries!" Everyone exhaled a huge sigh of relief at once.

Wilson double-checked through the peephole and opened the door a stringbean of a young man who fit his voice. He looked as if he had spent the last ten years going through the awkward stage of puberty.

He pointed the young man to the kitchen, then found the doorway filled with tall frame of Robert Goren.

"Dr. Wilson," the detective greeted.

Goren still looked tired and rumpled; hair sticking up on one side. He must have fallen asleep on the ride over. Eames stepped from behind her partner and into the living room. "Good morning, Dr. Wilson," she said.

The oncologist tried not to give away the fact that the sneaky detectives had scared him half to death. "Good morning, Alex. Groceries just arrived. Would either of you like anything to drink? Coffee? Soda?"

"No, thank you," she replied, and Goren shook his head.

"Well then," Wilson began, suddenly aware of how idiotic he must look. "I'll just put a few things away." He turned and practically ran to the kitchen to help the delivery kid.

"Detectives!" House called. "Come on in. Take off your coats and stay a while."

"Hello, Dr. House," Goren said, his tone drowsy but friendly. He walked around the sofa and frowned at the sight of Cuddy's bandaged face. "How are you, Dr. Cuddy?" He sat next to her and gently tilted her chin towards him to get a better look. Not being rude, just curious.

"I'll be fine, thank you," she answered. "It looks worse than it is." Cuddy's expression turned pensive. "Why did she choose me to deliver that message to you? Why couldn't she deliver it herself."

"She seems to think that she can use you to get to me," Goren explained. "Is she hurts my friends, she hurts me. And she's right."

"But why us?" Cuddy grabbed Goren's hand. "How much longer is this going to continue?"

"I wish I knew, Dr. Cuddy. I really wish I had an answer for you. You didn't see her face in the parking lot, did you?"

"No, she broke my nose before I could get a look at her. I just saw pavement and blood and stars after that. I could only hear her voice. She called me by name. She had an English accent."

The delivery kid left with a generous tip in his pocket. Nobody in the living room noticed him walk out the front door. Wilson had him help put away the perishables, leaving the counter and table cluttered with cans, boxes and bottles. He made sure the door was locked, and walked back to the easy chair. Eames acknowledged him with a succint smile, then turned her attention back to the sofa.

"We're looking for her. Believe me, we're looking," Goren continued. "We're going to catch her. She's been playing mind games with me for years. But I never thought she would sink this...low."

Cuddy looks up into the detectives tired brown eyes. "We can't...we're _not_ hiding in here forever."

"Of course not," Eames said.

The Dean of Medicine looked over her shoulder at the blonde detective sitting on the arm of the easy chair. "But that woman is still out there, dammit! Why can't you catch her? Why isn't she rotting in prison?" Cuddy turned back to Goren, closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths. "I'm...I mean the three of us, are going back to work as soon as possible. Even if it's just for half days, or just a few hours, we're going back. A lot of people depend on us. We can't help anybody by sitting in here."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from the three of you," Goren said sincerely. He was still holding her hand.

"That woman isn't going to take over our lives."

"No, she's not." It was House that spoke up.

A loud bang made everyone jump. It came from the front door, like someone had thrown a rock against it.

"Hey! You don't have to knock so loud!" Wilson yelled, thinking it was the delivery kid coming back for something. "Did you leave your keys?"

No answer.

"Hello?" Wilson walked over to the door. "Hey kid, did you forget something?" He put his hand on the doorknob.

"Dr. Wilson, wait!" Goren got up and went to the door. Eames followed. He drew his gun. So did Eames. The detectives motioned for Wilson to move out of the way. Goren unlocked the door and turned the knob. The gun pointed into the empty hallway. "Clear."

The door swung open into the apartment. There were three Polariod photographs stuck to it, showing Goren and Eames getting out of their SUV in front of the apartment building. The first two were simply taped to the door. The third was held in place with a knife, the blade going right through Goren's face.


	22. Chapter 22

The delivery was tracked back to the store. He had gone straight there after delivering House's stuff, helped few people take their groceries out to the car, then went on another delivery. That was confirmed by his boss, a dozen witnesses and security cameras. When shown Nicole Wallace's picture he said he had never seen her before. In other words, he had nothing to do with the photographs on the door.

A few witnesses said they saw a women in a blue baseball cap and sunglasses emerge from the building around the time the photographs were found. That was about as good as the descriptions got. Someone said she got into a dark sedan with New York plates. No one got the tag number. No one was sure it was even her.

After all the hoopla died down, after the local police left, after Cuddy and House got Goren and Eames up-to-date on what they knew before the detectives the drive back to New York, the doctors huddled in the living room. All the doors and windows were locked, again. All the lights were on even though it was still early evening. The only noise came from the air conditioner, a soft humming.

Wilson relaxed on the easy chair and closed his eyes, watching the colors swirl by. He was in no hurry to get up and do anything, he really didn't want to do anything, he just wanted some peace and quiet. House and Cuddy must have thought the oncologist fell asleep. Their voices began to float around the room.

"I'm scared," Cuddy said anxiously. Her voice was as tight as piano wire.

"I know," House said.

"She just won't quit, will she?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"Bobby said she didn't kill you to prove him wrong. I think there's more to it than that. She's just playing games right now. She'll kill you, me, Bobby, Alex, anyone if she gets half a chance."

Wilson opened his eyes and looked over at the sofa. House was twisted around to face Cuddy, his back or less to the chair. Cuddy was looking at the man sitting next to her. The rest of the world didn't exist.

"I think if she wanted us dead, we'd be dead," House began. "Like I said before, all she had to do was shoot me when I opened the door. She could have shot you in the parking lot. She wants us scared and she wants Bobby to suffer for it. The question is...do we let her scare us?"

"She already has," Cuddy said in a defeated tone. "You woke up in a panic and fell out of the bed. You woke screaming, remember?"

"All too well. But do we let her keep on scaring us? You said we were going back to work soon, Lisa. Are you backing out now?"

"No...it's just that...it's just...," she stumbled over her words, "she could show up at the hospital. She could hurt us again or, God forbid, a patient or several patients or a kid–"

"Lisa, don't."

"But she could show up. Right now I think she's capable of anything."

"It would be awfully risky to show up at the hospital."

"She showed up here..._again_. With Bobby and Alex ten feet away on the other side of the door. You saw what she did to his picture!"

"That was very creepy," House admitted with a heavy sigh.

"What happens if–"

"Lisa, we can sit here and come up with every scenario under the sun and never leave the apartment again. I know that isn't what you want." He lightly brushed his fingers against her cheek, getting a tiny smile from her in return. "Or we can keep an eye on each other and go on with our lives."

"I want to go on with my life. _Our _life. We just can't sit here anymore," she said.

"So let's go on with our lives. What do you say, boss?"

"I like that scenario a lot better." Her anxiety level went down a notch or two. "We need to go back to the hospital. We need to show that bitch-on-wheels that she can't scare us anymore. When Wilson wakes up we need to come up with a game plan, figure out how we're going to do this. Until then none of us should go outside alone for now, not even to get the mail."

"Sounds good to me." Wilson could see House smiling in agreement, the dimples in his cheeks. "Let's say we stop talking about Nicole or Elizabeth or whatever the hell her name is this week. Let's not talk about her for a while."

"That's fine with me. What should we talk about instead?"

"Us."

"Us?"

"You told me that I'm complicated and difficult. You told me that we've been together for a year and half but we don't live together. I'd like to know more about that."

"Don't you remember?"

"Parts of it are still kind of patchy. I need you to fill in the gaps." House meant every word of it and Cuddy couldn't hide her surprise, shock and delight.

Wilson suddenly felt like the proverbial third wheel.

"Do you two want to be alone?" the oncologist asked, stretching his legs.

The two doctors on the sofa turned to Wilson, realizing he had heard everything they had said.

"Yes," House sneered.

"No!" Cuddy gasped, giving her lover a swat on the arm. "Wilson, you're more than welcome here. You're not going anywhere."

Wilson stood up and stretched some more. "If you two need to talk, I can sit outside–"

"James," Cuddy said in a low, serious voice. "If you even _think_ of setting foot out there alone, even for a second, you won't have to worry about Elizabeth."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'll kill you myself."


	23. Chapter 23

"Whatever Greg and I need to talk about," Cuddy said, looking pointedly at House, "we can talk about later. In private. In the bedroom. You're not going anywhere, Wilson."

The fire behind her eyes told Wilson that now was not the time to argue with her. She'd drag him by the hair, kicking and screaming, before he could take one step out the door, even if it meant getting her nose broken all over again.

"Fine," the oncologist grumbled. "So now what?"

Cuddy grinned. "The three of us can talk about something else in the kitchen."

"Why there?" House puzzled.

"That's where the food is!" She turned back to Wilson. "Is there anything in there that can make a quick and easy meal?"

"There's some TV dinners in–"

"Perfect!" She stood up and pulled at House's arm. "We haven't had a decent meal in ages. Let's go."

Deciding that the oven would take way too long, the doctors microwaved their dinners. The microwave would hold only one meal at a time, and ladies first, Cuddy's dinner was soon nuking away. She sat at the table with House, immensely please that he had remembered to put some soy milk on his grocery list. Wilson put some of the canned goods away, then joined his friends at the table.

They wolfed down their meals with plenty of gusto and not one shred of shame. They talked and laughed. The checker board was brought back out. House kicked Wilson's ass all over the sixty-four for three straight games before the oncologist bowed out. Cuddy won three out of five before House called it quits.

Cuddy said the pain was coming back and she needed a pill and to lay down for a while. She wanted House to come with her. Wilson told them to go ahead and put the checker board back in the box. He caught the glint in their eyes before they left the kitchen and knew they were going to do more than talk in the bedroom.

* * *

Goren looked up from his desk and met Captain Ross' cool stare. 

"You're taking the rest of the day off, Detective," Ross said stonily. "Go home. Now."

Goren was expecting this and had his defense close at hand. He sat up as straight as his exhausted body would allow and began, "Captain, I'm not–"

"Detective–"

"Captain, please, just listen–"

"I'm not giving you a choice here, Goren," Ross interrupted, never breaking eye contact. "You can barely stand up as it is, let alone go out there and make an arrest. I am _ordering_ you to go home and get some sleep. No arguing with me. No excuses. Get out of here. _Now_. If I catch you in here before dawn tomorrow I'll have you shot on sight. Do I make myself clear?"

Before the detective could offer another protest, another weary voice cut him off: "Just go home."

Eames stared across the expanse of their desks, impatiently tapping a pen on a pile of papers. "You need to go home. Get some sleep. _Please_." The pleading in her words cut through the air and drew blood. "Please go home. I'll take care of the paperwork. Now go home."

Knowing he didn't have a choice, not that he had one to begin with, Goren quietly put away his files. He kept his eyes on his desk, feeling the heavy stares of Ross and Eames bore into him. He didn't want to go home. Nicole Wallace was still out there doing God knows what. Maybe she was tired with playing Dr. House and would just go ahead and kill him. Then she would move on to Dr. Cuddy. Maybe she–

His thoughts were scattered by a wave of lightheadedness after he stood up. The room swam, his desk spun in circles, colors faded in and out. Blood pounded in his ears along with a roar of white noise. Everything tilted like he was on a ship in rough water. He could faintly hear his name being called from every direction; hands grabbing his clothes and touching his skin.

"Bobby!" Eames voice broke through. She was standing next to him, pulling at shoulder in an attempt to get him to turn around. "Bobby, are you okay? Bobby, answer me!"

Focused again, he was staring down at his desk. His palms were flat against it. A puddle was forming on the blotter. That was strange...until he realized it was from the sweat dripping from his face. He could feel it trickling down his scalp all the way to his shoes.

"Jesus Christ, Goren," Ross muttered, grabbing his hand and shoving a cup of water into it. "Do you still feel like working or does your partner have to call 911 when you pass out at my feet?"

* * *

Detective Robert Goren took a cab back to his apartment. Everything was still tilting at funny angles. 

The bedroom was too far away from his front door. He collapsed on his couch and slept for seven straight hours. He woke up, stumbled to the kitchen for a glass or two of Glenlivet, stumbled back to the couch and slept for five more hours.

The apartment was pitch black. He groped for the lamp and finally found it. The light seemed unnaturally bright to his tired eyes. At least the world wasn't tilting every which way anymore. Goren was starving. He couldn't remember eating anything besides coffee and a hot dog from a street vendor for the past two days. An omelet with ham and cheese sounded perfect. He'd eat, get out of his clothes and sleep a few more hours in his bed, and be back at his desk at seven. Maybe that would shut Ross and Eames up for a while.

Then his gaze fell on to the coffee table and changed all his plans.

The first thing he noticed was the bottle of aspirin and glass of water. They weren't there before. The aspirin was kept in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Always. It was never out in the living room unless he had a particularly bad headache, which he didn't have at the moment, at least until he saw the aspirin bottle.

There were two pictures on the table. One was of him sleeping on the couch. The flash had been used and hadn't woke him up.

She had broken into his apartment. The bitch had been in his apartment, his personal space. She had taken her time to go through his things, take his picture, bring him the aspirin. All the while he was dead asleep, completely useless. Why didn't she just slit his throat and get it over with? What the hell did she want now?

There was another picture, cut up into pieces. The pieces were in a pile. Goren took out his knife and used it to move the pieces into place. A few minutes later the puzzle was completed and he looked down at the face of his brother.


	24. Chapter 24

Cuddy sat on the bed and let House take care of her. He gave her another pill and checked the bandages on her nose and knee. The one on her knee was a little too dirty for his liking. He cleaned the wound and put a fresh bandage on. 

She savored the soft side of Gregory House like a delicious dessert; watching as he made sure she was comfortable, that she had her medicine, that her cuts and scrapes were clean and wouldn't get infected. She suddenly found herself wondering where he would be right now if he hadn't decided to pay a drunken visit to her home that night a year and a half ago. Where would she be for that matter. The answer was obvious: They would be alone.

"That should do it," House said, setting the bandages and peroxide aside. "All better?"

"All better," she echoed. "Will you stay with me for a while?"

"You don't have to ask. That was the plan," he said, walking over to his side of the bed. "But if you have something to say to me, you better hurry up and say it before your pill kicks in. They make you just a tad loopy, you know."

"Yeah, I know." She waited until he was under the covers with her. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Sounds important. Ask away, boss."

"What do you think about the idea of us moving in together?" she asked, barely waiting for him to finish his sentence.

"I think...," he began, his mouth twitching in a crooked smile. "I think that you have obviously been giving the idea a lot of thought."

"I have. Actually, I wasn't going to ask you at all, but when you asked me why we don't live together--"

"You told me that I'm difficult and complicated, but you still want me to live with you."

"Yes."

House hoisted himself up on his elbow, the crooked smile still playing on his features. "Am I still difficult and complicated?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought," he said with a chuckle. "Aside from my complicated nature, what stopped you from bringing it up before?"

Cuddy turned on her side to face him completely and said, "Because you like your freedom. Because there are times you need your own space away from the rest of the world. Because you would have said that our arrangement was just fine and there was no need to change it. Now answer me...what do you think of the idea of us living together?"

"That's a rather big step to take," House replied. "One you think I just might be ready for."

"I think both of us need to consider the fact that our relationship should be taken to another level and both of us are ready to make that kind of commitment to each other."

"You're asking a lot from me, Lisa."

"I know."

"It's not the kind of thing I can just give a 'yes' or 'no' to and be done with it. You've had a lot of time to think it over. I think it's only fair that I'm given the same courtesy."

"I don't expect an answer right now, Greg. But I am serious about this and I hope you are too."

"This obviously means a lot to you, boss, whatever my decision may be."

"Yes, it means a lot to me."

"I'll let you know."

"Thank you," she said, stifled a yawn and cuddled closer. "Before either of us decide anything, I need to make arrangements for us to go back to work."

"You might want to put a rush on that or else you and Wilson might end up living with me whether you want to or not."

She laughed softly. "It's going to have to wait until tomorrow. I think poor Wilson is about to go stir-crazy. I just wish that crazy woman would be put in prison already."

"Bobby's doing everything he can."

"I hope he's okay." Cuddy was quiet for a few moments, then she asked, "Greg, do you remember that special day off we had?"

He frowned. "Not off the top of my head. Give me some hints."

"You bought the dessert."

"Sounds familiar..."

"A big, rich dessert."

The crooked smile returned. "Was it key lime flavored?"

"Yes!"

"And was the weather really lousy?"

Cuddy rested her chin on his chest. "It poured all day long. But we found an indoor activity that took our minds off the rain." She yawned again and moved back onto the pillow. "Good God, those pills are something else."

"You okay there, boss?"

"Yeah," she said sleepily. "I want to work my fourteen-hour days again. I want to yell at you about clinic duty. I want to call security on some creepy old man hitting on teenage girls in the waiting room."

"You'll be doing all that before you know it, Lisa."

Cuddy mumbled a few other words before the pills did their job and knocked her out cold. House stayed in the bed with her. The sounds of a car chase from the TV drifted through the bedroom door. House tuned it out and stared at the ceiling. Soon he was staring past the ceiling, past everything, wondering if he was ready to make such a huge change in his life.


	25. Chapter 25

The water pressure was a bit low and she thought about complaining, but hotel staff remember complainers very well and she didn't want to draw any undue attention to herself. She wasn't planning on sticking around much longer anyway. One more night, two at the most. Nonetheless, the shower was refreshing and just what she needed after the long night. Not quite ready to turn in for the night, Nicole Wallace stretched out on the bed and turned on the TV to CNN, more for background noise than to catch up on the headlines.

The hotel wasn't very far from Goren's apartment. She wasn't worried about being tracked down. Well, maybe a little. Goren was a clever bastard, even Nicole had to admit that, and he had found her before. So when she checked in she had her hair tucked up in a blue baseball hat, paid cash and spoke with an American accent. She had to stop herself from signing in as Elizabeth Stride. Goren would recognize it, see right through her little joke, she was sure of that. So a name half of American women seemed to have was staying on the second floor. All she could do for now was hope that Goren would think she was well on her way out of town. She decided that she would have to change hotels tomorrow, preferrably one with softer sheets and a bigger bathroom.

A picture was on the night table, next to the bolted-down clock and TV remote. She picked it up and held it up to the light–Goren slumped on his sofa, dead to the world. It had taken some nerve to use the flash, and even more nerve to use it twice, but she was honestly surprised when he didn't wake up. Even though she hadn't closed the front door all the way in case she needed to make a quick exit, Goren was twice her size and could easily hold her down or corner her. He hadn't even twitched when she took the pictures. Looking closely at the picture she could see why. Dark smudges of exhaustion were under his eyes, a generous amount of stubble on his chin, an ashen complexion. Though the picture didn't show it, she had noticed one of the shoes that he didn't bother to take off had come off on its own and was pushed into a cushion. It had probably been days since he had eaten a decent meal.

Breaking into his apartment had been another surprise...it was almost too easy. She thought about leaving a note telling him to get a better lock, but didn't want to hang around too long in case he did wake up. She had been in prison before and wasn't keen on going back anytime soon. Besides, he would get the message once he saw the pictures and aspirin bottle. Goren was no fool. That's probably why she had so much fun playing mind games with him...he was smart enough to know when he was being played and was furious about it.

The picture glinted in the light. Nicole stared at it for a few more minutes, grinning, then set it back down.

The last week or so had been a treat. She didn't even mind the tedious drives from New York to New Jersey to DC and back again. It was fun yanking Goren around, watching him sweat, and using that pathetic gimp doctor friend of his was the icing on the cake. Dr. House, the worthless drug addict cripple. _All_ men were worthless as far as Nicole Wallace was concerned, but Dr. House took it to a whole new level. Oh, how he had begged like a dog for his pills. Begged and begged and begged until she finally got tired of his whining and gave him one so he would shut up for a while. Too bad she hadn't been able to see the look on his face when he opened the card. That would have a been a moment worth capturing on her camera. Too bad she had to let him live to make Goren eat his words. Someone should put House out of his misery. The sooner, the better. He was a complete waste of oxygen.

Dr. Cuddy had been an unexpected bonus. Had Nicole driven by the apartment ten minutes later she would have missed Cuddy driving off to the store. Another added bonus was the large van parked just right, blocking the store entrance so no gawking bystanders were able to see her knock the sorry bitch to the ground after she had put the groceries in the trunk of the car. Bigshot Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine, crying like a little girl as the blood poured out of her broken nose. The pathetic whore who was fucking the even more pathetic House. She deserved to have her nose flattened for that fact alone. Now they were hiding in that apartment with that other doctor like the cowards they were. Let them hide. Let them sleep with the light on. Let them be reminded of the picture she sent every time they looked at a greeting card.

Still feeling listless, she got up and made herself a cup of tea. Strong, hot, dark and bitter, not the watered down version over ice and drowning with sugar the Americans seemed so inexplicably fond of.

Her suitcase was under the bed. Her collection of fake Ids were safely tucked away, along with her emergency cash. The cash was running a little low for her liking, she would have to get more in the morning. Enough to last several weeks. The needles were tucked away as well. There were only five left. The one she had filled with strychnine and plunged into Frank Goren's neck had broken off.

It wasn't the brother that had been her original target. Nicole had wanted to finish off the crazy old bat Goren called a mother. Two things had forced her to alter her plans. The first was that Mommy Dearest had apparently been harassed by Goren's long list of enemies before, and he had made sure no other strangers got within a hundred yards of her room. The second was the hag already had one foot in the grave; by the time Nicole got back to New York, Frances Goren had only weeks to live. Killing her would have been a bit anticlimatic. It wouldn't have been the kick in the gut she wanted Goren to have. No where near the pain she had felt when she had been forced to leave Gwen behind.

Then she found out his estranged brother had crawled out of whatever cave he had been hiding in and they had been playing catch-up. His mother and his brother within weeks of each other. Too perfect.


	26. Chapter 26

Goren believed that she had killed his brother before breaking into his apartment to leave the torn picture behind. Eames agreed that was the most likely scenario. Her partner was usually right about those things. That was the sort of thing Nicole Wallace would do and could do–she could make him think that his brother was still alive, that he could warn Frank and make sure he was safe. Even when Frank's phone rang and rang and rang, Goren didn't think he was already dead. There had to be a reasonable explanation: Frank wasn't home. The phone number was wrong. Frank was asleep and didn't hear it. It wasn't until Robert Goren saw the body and the puncture mark in his neck that he quit hitting redial on his cellphone to call Frank's number.

Eames was sitting at his kitchen table. She could see into the living room. Goren was on his sofa, staring blankly into space, still wearing the same clothes from the day before. A glass of Glenlivet was in his hand. He hadn't touched it since she poured it for him an hour ago. His gun was on the table. She had made sure the safety was on before she had poured his drink.

The front door wasn't visible from where she was sitting. A shiny new deadbolt and chain had been put on under Goren's supervision.

He didn't want her there but she didn't give him a choice. That was a lie...she had given him three choices–he could stay at her house, she could stay at his apartment, or Ross could stay with him. He wanted to choose none of the above. When she told him to enjoy having Ross breathing down his neck for the next day or so, he finally caved in. He grumbled about the lesser of two evils while she drove them back to his apartment.

He had barely said a word since they got back. He was still grieving for his mother and now he was going to have to do it all over again for his brother.

Goren leaned back and closed his tired blood-shot eyes. When he didn't move for fifteen minutes Eames got up and walked over to the sofa.

"Bobby?" She stood just out of his reach in case she wound up spooking him and he took a swing at anything in his line of sight.

No need to worry about a wayward smack–Goren was asleep. Eames took the Glenlivet out of his hand before he ended up wearing it. She drank it herself, then washed the glass and put it back in the cupboard.

In the six years she had known him this was the first time she had ever been in his apartment. It was exactly how she pictured it: neat, orderly, and filled with books. Everything was in its place. Just like his desk where he noticed when something was the slightest bit out of place or when the Post-It notes were missing. The books were shelved by subject and alphabetized; art, criminology, psychology, some crime fiction thrown in. Goren worked like a dog and still found time to indulge his love of reading. One of these days she was going to have to ask him how and where he found the time. A thin film of dust was visible on the bookshelves, and the apartment had a faint musty smell. He'd been a little too busy lately to worry about cleaning.

She left him alone for the moment and walked back over to the books. Let him get a few hours of rest. He was going to need it. Over at the bookshelves a name caught her eye. Lucian Freud. A painter Goren had mentioned liking before.

What did Goren say about art? _I'm not interesting in living with it, I'm interested in thinking about it._ Something like that. Judging from all the art books on his shelves he did just that.

There were two books. She brought them to the other end of the couch, so she could keep an eye on her partner in case he woke up and needed anything. Eames paged through each book carefully, trying to see the paintings the way Goren saw them.

* * *

House was deep in thought. The idea of moving in with Cuddy weighed heavily on his mind. Was he ready for that kind of change? What would he have to give up? What if it didn't work out? Where would he put his piano? 

_What_? He blinked at the ceiling. Where did _that_ come from?

_Where would I put my piano_?

He could hear his own voice saying those words. And he could smell the sweetness of fresh strawberries. Cuddy was at the sink cutting up some strawberries. Whipped cream was chilling in the fridge. Real whipped cream...he had licked the beaters clean. He had joked about moving in so he could have those goodies all the time. She hadn't even flinched. She must have been thinking about having him move in with her back then. Why hadn't she said anything?

_Is it because I'm difficult and complicated?_

_You can be, yes_.

There was no doubt in his mind that she was telling the truth.

House turned over to face her. What did she see in him, past the damaged leg, the addiction, the abrasiveness, the broken man?

_Am I a bad person, Lisa_?

_You're a good man_.

Was he really? How good of a man was he?

He would find out when he decided if the piano was going to stay put or not.


	27. Chapter 27

Pure laziness kept House in bed. That and he enjoyed being near Cuddy even if she was a million miles away in dreamland.

His thoughts drifted to finding out she had been attacked in the grocery store parking lot. She had gone out there to do a favor for him and Wilson, and wound up being maced and having her nose banged up but good. He recalled the panic, anger and dread he had felt, and how the lamp paid for it. Too bad that lamp hadn't been Elizabeth's skull.

Bobby always referred to her by her real name, Nicole Wallace. House always thought of her as Nicole. Nicole, Elizabeth, she was still pure evil no matter name she used.

Elizabeth threatening to kill Cuddy, withholding his pills until he was in pure agony, her high-pitched laughter at his pain...

He felt his heart speed up, cold sweat rose and trickled down his chest. Why was he thinking about her again? House had force himself to think about something else, anything else.

His piano. That was much better. He began to relax again.

He hadn't played his piano in a while. Their special day off...Cuddy had sat with him for hours while he played for her. She would do that, sit for hours with her arm around his waist and head resting on his shoulder while he played her requests.

Why didn't they live together yet? Was he really that hard to live with?

House stole another glance at the sleeping Cuddy and made a mental note to ask her if she had any requests when she woke up.

His body felt lazy but his mind was restless and continued to wander here, there, and everywhere, disturbing the nap he wanted to take. After nearly an hour of trying to comfortable, twisting the sheets around his legs, and trying not to disturb Cuddy through it all he had to admit defeat. With a grunt he sat up and snatched his cane. Let Cuddy sleep in peace. She certainly deserved it.

Wilson managed to tear his gaze away from the Hitchcock movie he was watching while House limped to the sofa and sat down with a heavy sigh.

"How's Cuddy doing?" the oncologist asked.

"Just fine," House muttered in reply.

"How are you doing?"

House turned to look at his friend. "I don't know yet. I'll have to get back to you on that."

"Um...okay." Wilson furrowed his brow, then turned back to the movie.

"How are you doing, Wilson?"

House noted the look on Wilson's face. Why did his friend look so shocked at such a simple question? It's not like he asked Wilson to rip out his liver and eat it or anything.

"I'm alright," Wilson answered. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," House said sincerely, then turned his attention to the movie in which two young men tried to pull of the perfect murder.

* * *

The posh hotel she checked into was a huge improvement over the last one, with a bed so huge she could get lost under the comforter and it would take her a week to find her way out. Earlier she had indulged in a filet mignon dinner and an absolutely scrumptious slice of chocolate cake for dessert, then a nice, long bubble bath in the sunken bathtub. Too bad she was checking out the next morning. It would almost be worth getting caught for another slice of that cake. She combed the tangles out of her wet hair, then relaxed on the massive bed and mused over what do the next day. 

Nicole Wallace's only regret was that she couldn't be there to see Goren's face when he found out his brother was dead by her hands. She wished she could have preserved that moment on film and mail him a copy every now and then, just as a little reminder of what she could do and how he couldn't stop her. The picture of Goren crashed on his sofa was safely stashed away in her suitcase. She didn't feel like hunting for it so her memory would have to do for the time being.

What would a grieving Robert Goren be doing right now? Crying his eyes out? Drinking himself into a stupor? Sleeping off a hangover because he was already drunk? Maybe not. Nicole had to grudginly admit that Goren was a man with pride. What that pride was Nicole couldn't see since Goren came from a family with a loser brother, a nutball for a mother, and a womanizing worthless father who could have cared less whether his younger son lived or died. No, Goren wasn't drunk just yet. He was something of a night owl. Nicole noticed that right away while watching his apartment and seeing the lights stay on half the night or go on and off at all hours. He was probably wide awake, and if he wasn't awake he would be soon, wondering where it all went wrong and why he couldn't save the pathetic waste of space that was named Frank Goren. She almost regretted the fact that Goren didn't have any family left. No wife, no kids, up all night in his lonely apartment.

Up all night, like the gimp doctor...someone else who was up at weird hours. Unlike Goren's apartment, Nicole could see into the doctor's windows when he limped around his apartment, usually with his whore boss in tow. Watching that addict pop his pills like Tic Tacs was bad enough, watching his slut fawn all over him like he was the greatest thing to ever live was positively nauseating. It was almost a relief when he spent the night at her house in her yuppie scum neighborhood; it gave Nicole an excuse to stay in her car rather than risk being seen peeking in the windows by some brat out walking the family dog.

_I should have knocked the slut's teeth out, too, _Nicole thought, the words dripping with venom and stinging her mind.

Maybe it was time to pay the doctors another surprise visit.


	28. Chapter 28

Eames closed the second book on Lucian Freud and returned the books to the shelf exactly how she found them, then selected two more art books to curl up with and pass the time. She still didn't understand what on earth her partner found so meaningful about Freud's nudes and decided to chalk it up to a matter of taste rather than being too dense to see the thousand words the pictures were worth. One of her new selections had Impressionist paintings in it. Goren had dismissed Impressionists as 'too pretty', but he apparently wasn't above 'thinking about' them anyway. The Monet they had looked at in the museum was beautiful, even if it did turn out to be a fake.

Goren was still asleep on the sofa and his six-foot-four frame was going to have to stay there until he decided to move it himself. She suddenly recalled once thinking he was just a bit unstable and too erratic; she had put in a petition for a new partner. A scumbag lawyer tried to use that to discredit her and Goren during a trial. Nevermind that she had withdrawn that petition or that five years had passed since then. It was humiliating nonetheless. She had apologized to Goren outside the courtroom; he simply laughed it off. Thankfully it took more than one ill-timed petition to offend him. Neither of them have brought it up since.

She found some spare blankets and draped one over her partner. He didn't even twitch. She stole the pillows from his bed and made herself comfortable on the other end of the sofa. She opened up the book and found herself looking at a pretty Monet.

* * *

The traffic in New York was always murder, and for a while Nicole thought about hitting the road early to avoid it, but decided getting to New Jersey a few hours earlier wouldn't change anything. They were probably still holed up in the apartment, afraid of their own shadows. They would travel in pairs, double-check the doors and windows, jump at every creak in the floorboards. That was perfectly all right. Nicole was prepared to wait as long as necessary. Payback was payback, whether it be tomorrow or six months from now. 

She checked the weather on her laptop, then turned on the television. One of those bizarre American movies about Marines and Vietnam was on. She laughed when the fat guy killed the drill sergeant, then blew his own head off.

* * *

House kicked Wilson's ass up and down the checkerboard four times without a shred of mercy. "Aren't you going to let me beat you sixty-four times, one for each square?" House asked, then had to duck when Wilson picked up the board and swatted it in his general direction. 

"I've give up. You're the king," Wilson said before grabbing a Pepsi and going back to the living room.

"Pussy!" House chided.

"Yeah...yeah..."

_Click._ Another Hitchcock movie came on. After a while they all seemed the same to House. As Wilson settled back to enjoy the show House decided it was time to check on Cuddy.

He found her sprawled across the bed, still snoozing away. Other than her still broken nose and the fact that he might have to do some creative rearranging if she was still taking her half out of the middle when he decided to turn in, she was just fine and dandy. He turned to leave and had his hand on the doorknob when he heard: "Come here."

"Lisa?" House limped over to the lamp and switched it on. "Lisa, do you need something?"

She looked up at him with cloudy, dazed eyes and a weak smile. She was still flying a mile high on her pain meds. Holding out a hand, Cuddy repeated, "Come here."

House obliged and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, like a steel vice. It made him wince. She pulled him over until he lost his balance and was lying next to her.

"I want you with me, Greg," she murmured, and replaced sprawling across the bed with sprawling across his chest. It bordered on aggressive; her nails dug into his side hard enough to break the skin.

"I'm right here, Lisa," House replied softly and carefully, being extra diligent to say the right thing and avoid a medication-induced rampage. He reached up and gently stroked her cheek. That pleased her immensely. The nails left his skin and her hand met his.

"You'll always be with me?" Her voice had a dreamy sing-song lilt to it. She wasn't aware of a single word she was saying. A change of medication was in store for Cuddy as soon as possible. House made a mental note to flush her pills the first chance he got and to give her his bottle of ibuprofen or half a Vicodin if she really needed it. She sure as hell couldn't run the hospital in a zonked-out stupor while babbling incoherent nonsense. Her bosses might not take too kindly to that.

"Of course I will," he answered with a smile.

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." Even though he had a terrible track record of keeping his promises, House didn't feel guilty about making this one. He had no intention of leaving her and she wouldn't remember his pseudo-promise in the morning anyway.

"We belong together," she said in her dreamy voice, satisfied that she was one hundred percent correct.

"Yes, we do." No need to lie to her this time.

"You and me, together forever," she said, followed by a high-pitched giggle that made House think of teenage girls, slumber parties and teddy bears. He doubted that Cuddy had ever been this high before. It would be scary if she weren't safe inside his apartment and the medication wasn't wearing off.

"I'll love you forever," Cuddy murmured while snuggling closer. She rested her head on his chest and fell back asleep.

"I love you, too." No need to lie about that either, even though she couldn't hear a word of it.


	29. Chapter 29

Even when she was knocked out cold with meds and had a less-than-flattering bandage across her nose, House thought Cuddy was gorgeous. It would take a hell of a lot more than drugs and a healing injury to make him think otherwise.

_I'll love you forever._

Even if she wasn't aware that she said it, she meant it. House was sure of it. She loved him and he loved her. It was as simple as that. He would burn everything he owned if he was wrong, and he knew the matches weren't coming out anytime soon. The wait to hear those words had been far too long, and no one else was willing to say them. House was sure of that, too.

_I love you too, Lisa_.

Cuddy was asleep, but it was a fitful, restless sleep; murmuring nonsense and swatting at some invisible thing in front of her face. House finally had to hold her wrist down before she ended up accidently scratching his eyes out, letting go only when she fell into a deeper sleep and began to lightly snore. Smiling to himself, he gently maneuvered her back onto the pillows. She was as gorgeous as ever. He liked watching her sleep. He liked feeling her body heat, feeling her warm, smooth skin under his fingertips. He liked knowing that she would be there in the morning. Maybe she was dreaming about him. He decided to stay with her for a little while longer in case she woke up and needed anything. Or had anymore declarations of love for him.

A dull ache began to sneak up his right thigh. His pills were in the living room. He would have to go get them soon.

The scar on his leg. It was deep and jagged and the most hideous thing he had ever seen in his life. The soft smile on House's face dissolved into a cringe as he thought about it. More distant memories began to float back up and skim the surface. He had to strain to hear Cuddy insisting that the scar didn't bother her as he pulled a blanket over his leg and snapped at her, telling her not to look at it. Don't look at it. Don't look at it, it's ugly. Will you listen to me? _Don't look at it, dammit._ His fingers skimmed along the fabric of the sweatpants on his right thigh, feeling the concave shape where the missing muscle once was, the tight, thick scar tissue where the ache began to pound. He pulled his hand away, shuddering.

It didn't bother Cuddy. It didn't bother her at all. She wanted him to move in with her. It didn't bother her at all.

That was easy for her to say. She's not the one who had to live with it.

Another memory. This one all too crystal clear:

_Shut up_! _Just shut up_! _You stupid bitch, just shut the fuck up already_!

_-Slap_-

_Oh, my God...Oh no..._

A maniac had waltzed into his office and shot him twice. House reached up and touched the scar on his neck as the haunting memory came back. He had asked for ketamine before going into surgery. For a while everything was alright. The cane was stuffed into a golf bag and hidden in the back of the closet. He was running. He was pain free for the first time in years. Life was good. Very, very good. Then the ketamine treatment failed, big time. The pain came back worse than ever. He went back on the Vicodin. His leg had been killing him. Cuddy tried to help but it wasn't nearly enough. Even after all the patience and comfort she had given him, he still took all his pain and resentment and anger out on her. He wound up throwing his breakfast across the kitchen. Screamed at her, called her a bitch. She had slapped him, good and hard. He had certainly deserved it. The bruise left behind had gotten some interesting looks from colleagues and strangers alike.

She ended up stepping on a piece of the broken dish and had limped for a while. He had been alarmed when he saw that. Thankfully it only lasted a day or two.

And she was still with him. All that drama and she was still with him, in his clothes, in his bed. She wanted to take the plunge and live with him. Seal the deal. Make it permanent.

_We belong together._

Yes, they did.

Some of her clothes were hanging in his closet. Some of his were back at her place. She wore his shirts to bed because they reminded her of him. The Jack Daniel's shirt was her favorite. It was a replacement after the old one she had stolen from him got chewed up in an old washing machine. The thought brought the smile back to his face. He remembered how genuinely thrilled she had been when she opened the bag with her new Jack Daniel's shirt in it and smiled even wider. She had made sure he saw her wearing it after taking him back home from New York. Hoping to jog his memory. She wanted him to remember everything, the good times and the bad.

Where would he be without her?

She loved him. It was as simple as that.

She all but lived with him anyway. Was he willing to take the next step? Was that something he really wanted?

A sharp bolt of pain brought him crashing back to reality.

_Damn it all to hell_, he thought morosely and clutched his bad thigh.

He needed to get his pills. He pulled the blanked up to her shoulder and decided to check on her again in a little while, then limped back out into the living room.


	30. Chapter 30

Robert Goren was a man who liked to be left alone so he could do his job, and that included the cooking. After waking up and taking a few minutes to remember where he was, he stomped to the kitchen while waving off any of Eames efforts to help and began to make omelets for the two of them. Eames could only stand by the counter and watch. He was as methodical in making his meal as he was with everything else; carefully cutting and dicing and mixing until everything was perfect. Onions, peppers and ham where now in equal piles of perfect little cubes. He then turned his attention to the cheddar cheese, grating it until he was satisfied there was enough for both of them. Even though she didn't like onions she didn't say anything when he began to mix all the ingredients with the eggs.

"We should talk about...what's happened," she told her partner. "A lot has happened."

"Let's eat first," he replied, pretending to be preoccupied with the task at hand so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. Instead he looked into the frying pan is if it were the most fascinating thing in the whole wide world. But if anybody could see right through him, it was Eames. He couldn't put it off forever, especially if she was staying in his apartment. "I'm hungry and so are you."

"Ross wants you to take some time off," she said. "Effective immediately."

"I'm not going to."

"Even if he makes you?"

"I can work just fine without being at my desk. Ross knows that as well as you do. All I need is my laptop and my library card."

"You need to take some time off, even if it's just a few days." Eames hoped she didn't sound like she was pleading with him or trying to start an argument.

"I will when I'm ready," he said calmly, as if he was trying to decide what tie to wear tomorrow. He folded the omelet perfectly, slid it onto a plate and handed it to her. "Here, go sit at the table. I'll be there in a minute."

"Anything to wash this down with?" she asked, taking the plate and a fork. Goren would start talking when he was ready. A decent meal would help him relax and open up. Another half hour or so wouldn't make any difference.

"I'll bring it. Go sit down."

She took her omelet and sat at the table. Goren brought two tall glasses and a gallon of milk, then poured for her as if he were a waiter instead of a brilliant detective. He left the milk container on the table and went back to finish cooking his dinner. She nibbled at hers, waiting for him to join her at the table.

He sat across from her, wolfed down a few bites and drank half the glass of milk in three big gulps before asking, "Which books did you look at?"

Eames paused with her fork in midair.

"You needed something to pass the time with," Goren went on. "No television or music since you didn't want to disturb me. You didn't have a book of your own or else it would be on the table or in your hands. You were only a few pages into the magazine you were reading when I woke up and it was the only magazine on the table. Which books did you look at?"

"The books on Lucian Freud," she answered as her scalp prickled. His observation skills were so sharp they were downright freaky.

"What did you think?"

"He paints sweaty, naked people."

"Not all of his paintings are nudes, Eames."

"Either way I still don't get him."

Goren chuckled quietly. "Well, he's not for everybody. Thank you for putting them back."

"It was the least I could do."

"My mother wasn't too fond of him, either."

"Who did she like?" Eames asked carefully, keeping an eye on her partner without being too obvious. She stabbed another bite of her omelet and glanced up. Goren was refilling his glass of milk.

"Nobody, really. She wasn't much of an art connoisseur," he replied with a slight frown. "Neither was Frank. And as far as I know my father wouldn't have known a Freud painting if he tripped over one. It's kind of strange when you think about it. I wonder where I got it from?"

* * *

Lisa Cuddy woke up to dark, blurry world. She reached out blindly and grasped nothing but the emptiness next to her. He wasn't there. Where was he? Was he gone again? Was he– 

Faint noise drifted in. The television. Then a few louder voices:

"Jimmy? Hey, Wilson!"

"_What_?"

"Bring the chips in here, will ya?"

"Will you wait for one lousy second?"

She smiled. House was twenty feet away, as demanding as ever.

She rolled over to his side of the bed, hoping to find some his warmth in the sheets. They were cool to the touch. He had been gone for a while. He had left the door open a few inches in case she called out for anything. He wanted to hear her if she called out. She pulled his pillow to her chest, knowing it would be a while before he would bring the warmth back.


	31. Chapter 31

Cuddy blinked her eyes and a blurry glance at the clock told her that ninety minutes had gone by. A certain someone still hadn't come back in to reclaim his side of the bed. A sliver of light peeked in through the slightly ajar door, letting in the low babble of the television and two other familiar voices with it. She didn't want to wait for him anymore. The night was still young, in Greg House terms anyway, and he wasn't going to be joining her under the warm covers anytime soon. Not without a gentle push. Or a call of his name.

"Greg?"

She waited and listened as she blinked the blurriness away. The room slowly swam back into focus; the sliver of light took on a sharp edge. No tall, lean shadow silhouetted in the doorway. He didn't hear her.

Calling out again, she threw in a mixture of neediness and desperation into her voice. "_Greg, can you hear me_?"

It worked.

"Lisa?" He sounded worried. Five seconds later he was limping into the bedroom as fast as his bad leg could carry him. He switched on the lamp and his eyes were concerned and blazing. "Lisa, do you need another pill? Are you–"

"I'm fine. It's all right. I'm fine." The neediness and desperation were gone from her voice, replaced with reassurance when she realized that she inadvertently hit some kind of panic button in him. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Are you okay?" He sat at the edge of the bed, still not convince everything was just fine. "Do you need anything?"

"Yes, actually. I do need something."

"What?" House asked, standing back up. "What do you need?"

"I need you, Greg."

He blinked. "Come again?"

"I want you in here with me," she said, and gave him a curling smile. "I don't want to be alone anymore tonight."

"I can play the piano for you. Come sit with me. Have any requests?"

"Not right now. Come to bed. Please."

"If that's what you want. I can do that." The concern dissolved from his eyes, leaving behind the glow. "Anything else? How's your nose? Is it hurting?"

"A little bit."

"Think you can get by on something over-the-counter?" he asked, hoping like hell she would say yes. He didn't want her to be in a coma for the rest of the night.

"Yeah, I think I can handle it."

"Great." House grinned; it was one hundred times brighter than the sun. He took the glass of water from the night table and said, "Be right back."

True to his word, he limped out the door and came back in after barely two minutes, awkwardly carrying a fresh glass of water tinkling with ice cubes and a bottle of ibuprofen.

"Good night, Wilson," House called over his shoulder.

"'Night, House," the oncologist called from the living room. "Good night, Dr. Cuddy!"

"Good night, James!" She giggled as House closed the bedroom door.

After taking three ibuprofen and a long gulp of the cold water, she shifted back over to her side and watched as her lover took his sweet time climbing in and making himself comfortable in the body heat she left behind. He left the lamp on. That was fine. She wanted to see him.

"I'm here, boss. Now get on with the cuddling."

Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a long, sweet, deep kiss. "How's that?" Cuddy asked after coming back up for a breath.

"It's a start. Just take it easy there, boss. Don't hurt yourself," he said, gently tracing a finger down her face, brushing it against the bandage.

"No need to worry," she said. "Soon I'll be as good as new."

She cuddled closer and all but melted in his embrace. House hadn't been too keen on physical contact in the beginning; she had had to wait until he was asleep to wrap herself around him and have a bit of one-sided snuggling. If she tried before he was sleeping he would push her hands away. Not anymore. It took months of patience, waiting, but now he more than welcomed it. It was a victory he hardly noticed. It more than made up for the fact that he still didn't like her looking at the scar.

"I won't take anything less," House remarked.

"Neither will I."

"That's what I thought," he said with a grin. "When all the hoopla has died down, when everything is back to normal, I think we should have another special day off. What do you say there, boss?"

"We've already missed a lot of work," she told him regretfully. "We've missed too much work. That's not going to happen for a long while, Greg."

"A half-day off? A night off?"

"Let's let all the hoopla die down first," she said, scratching his scruffy chin. "Let's get caught up at the hospital. Then we can have a nice dinner and discuss a few things."

"Still want me to move in?"

"Yes."

"Have you thought about moving in with me instead, Lisa?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"We do have a few things to discuss over dinner," he observed. "Sooner rather than later. But you know I'm worth the wait. I'll even bring the key lime pie."

* * *

It was one of those bright and blinding afternoons that made Nicole Wallace glad she had bought the extra large sunglasses. The traffic was crawling along, of course. She probably could have jogged back to New Jersey faster. But she was in no hurry. There was no hidden deadline to meet. She hummed along to the radio as she inched along the with the rest of New York. She had plenty of money to find a place to stay and wait for the frightened little doctors to let their guard down. That whore doctor was going to get her teeth kicked in way or the other, and the gimp was going to watch. Goren would get all the pretty pictures in the mail. 


	32. Chapter 32

"Exactly. I want that done as soon as possible," Cuddy said with her best authoritative voice into the phone.

As Cuddy went about the tedious process of making arrangements for them to return to work, House lolled around in bed and watched quietly. She was sitting with her back to him. The prescription meds were out of her system and demeanor was all business. He edged closer until they were nearly touching, then started to run brush his fingers along her spine, up and down.

She turned around and mouthed the word "Stop" at him as she swatted at his hand, not missing a beat as she continued to dictate to her to-do list.

Of course, House didn't miss a beat, either. He picked right up where he left off.

He waited for her to get caught up in her conversation again, then lightly dragged his fingers along her spine once again and watched her shiver in the most delicious way. Cuddy tried to squirm out of his reach, but House encircled her waist and kept her close, wanting her softness and her warmth next to him for the rest of their days. The tickling and shivering and squirming continued, and finally Cuddy ended her call with a nearly breathless, "Yes...yes, that's right. Great, I'll see you tomorrow," and hung up the phone with enormous relief before collapsing back into his embrace.

"Good God!" she exclaimed. "Can't you wait two minutes? I was on the phone, for Pete's sake!"

"And I'm supposed to care because...?" House let that question hang in the air as he covered her neck in fluttering kisses.

"You could behave like an adult and not like a knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, sex-starved troglodyte while I'm conducting hospital business. Is that too much to ask?"

"We're not at the hospital right now and you still haven't told me why I should care."

"In case you didn't notice, I was trying to have a serious conversation."

"And I was seriously trying to turn you on, boss, and it looks like I succeeded."

"I hate to put a damper on your libido, Greg, but it's back to work tomorrow. Back to your cases, your patients, your files and your clinic duty."

"Am I supposed to care now?"

"You never have before."

"Right," he said, pulling her back down to the bed, her hair a dark swirl on the pillow. He wanted to dive into her crystal blue eyes and drown. "And I'm not going to start now. Clinic duty will be a piece of cake after all that's happened this week. Oh, by the way, it will take more than the threat of going to the hospital and doing my job to put a damper on my libido."

"That's the Greg House I know and love," she murmured, gently tracing her nails down his cheek and was more than delighted to see him shiver just as she did several minutes earlier.

"Is that right?" House seemed to be privately amused. Whatever was amusing him, Cuddy couldn't begin to guess. "You love me, Lisa?"

"That's a silly question," she said, frowning a bit. "You know I do."

"It's also a very nice thing to hear," he said sincerely as the electricity crackled behind his eyes and the room began to get too warm. "Very nice. That's something I wouldn't mind hearing again."

"I love you," she declared.

"Again."

"I love you, Greg."

He smiled. "I know." There seemed to be a tinge of apprehension underneath his voice, like he wanted to say something but couldn't bring himself to say it. "It's still early, boss. I don't feel like getting up yet. How about you?"

"Is that your way of saying you'd like to cuddle some more, Greg?" she asked with a knowing grin.

"Cuddle, kiss you until you can't breathe. Does that sound like fun?"

"I'm fine with that. Will you play some Mozart later?"

"If that's what you want."

"And Beethoven?"

"I think I can fit him in, too."

"One more request."

"Hmmm?"

She tilted his chin until they were eye to eye. "Tell me you love me, Greg."

Cuddy expected him to be caught off guard, to hesitate with his answer. But he didn't. She was the one caught off guard when he said, "I love you," immediately and honestly.

"Again," she demanded. "I want to hear you say it again."

"Lisa, I love you."


	33. Chapter 33

Goren was back at his desk at 8am. The file on Nicole Wallace was right there with him. So far Ross wasn't breathing down his neck, he was in his office on a conference call. In the meantime Goren leafed through the file and braced himself for the inevitable talking-to when Ross emerged from his office.

There were no messages waiting for him from Dr. House. Goren called him and filled him on all the details so far, up to his brother and Nicole Wallace disappearing without a trace for the moment. The tension in House's voice went through the roof at the mention of Nicole's name. He was probably still sleeping with the lights on. Then Cuddy got on the phone and offered enough condolences to last three lifetimes.

Eames came breezing in half an hour later, still smelling of the flowery-scented shampoo she used. She had left his apartment ninety minutes earlier to go home for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

He had offered to make her a quick breakfast while being quietly amused at her neatly folding up the blanket she had borrowed and leaving it on sofa. No thanks on the breakfast offer, but she would kill for a cup of coffee. He gave her the biggest mug in his cupboard and asked her not to drop it. The mug was back on his desk when Eames walked by it. Sparkling clean, just as it had been in his apartment.

Eames glanced at him as he quietly sifted through the pages. He shouldn't be here. He needed to take time off. He needed to grieve for his mother and brother. He needed to realize that everyone has limits, even him, and he was going to hurt or kill himself if he didn't slow down. She had been able to get him to talk about his family situation, more or less, the night before; dredging up some memories and feelings in him that even he didn't know were there. Lots of shouting, harsh words, questions, regrets, mixed emotions, apologies directed at mother and brother and himself. By the time he declared himself too tired to go on and retreated to his bedroom, his face was red, his eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks were tear-stained, and his voice was hoarse. Unable to help herself, Eames had peeked into his bedroom twenty minutes after he said goodnight and that there were extra blankets in the closet. The enormous blue comforter rendered him a vague, snoring lump on the bed.

Now here he was, barely seven hours later, acting as if everything was perfectly normal. His face was freshly shaved, his dark brown suit as impeccably clean as ever. He had obviously used the Visine in his medicine cabinet. He was putting on a good show. Almost too good. It all had to come crashing down sooner or later.

* * *

Her new name was Elizabeth Powell. She was an aspiring writer South Africa, and had come to Princeton in hopes that a change of scenery would help cure her writer's block and let her finish the novel she had been toiling over.

_Why New Jersey, if you don't mind me asking_, the hippy landlord in a flowery skirt had inquired while unlocking the apartment door.

_I've never been to New Jersey. I figured a new place, a new start on my book. Why not?_

_Why not New York, honey? Isn't that where all the writers are?_

_New York is lovely, I've been there before on holiday. But I'd have to give up an arm and a leg and my first born to pay the rents they want._

The landlord had laughed and let her look around. A small furnished apartment on the second floor with a view of the street and neighborhood. The bathroom was no bigger than a phone booth. A tiny stove and refrigerator. It was a nondescript place in a fairly busy city. A city that had a little bit of everything. A place where people come and go at weird hours and no one gives them a second look. A place where someone could hide in plain sight.

She had given her best charming smile to the landlord. _Is there high-speed internet access?_

_There sure is, honey._ _Gotta stay plugged in, especially if you're writing a book and all. Oh, and I won't ask for your first born, just first and last months' rent and a security deposit. And no smoking._

_Smoking is disgusting. Is it quiet around here? Will there be strangers coming in and out at all hours? I need quiet and privacy._

_My partying days are over, honey. There's college kids around here and sometimes they go a little crazy. I'm afraid I can't do anything about them, though._

_I can handle that. What about your privacy? I'm afraid I keep odd hours. When I get an idea I need to write it down or else I'll lose it and that can happen at the strangest times. I don't want to disturb you._

_You can use the back door if that's all right. My bedroom and the living are in the front. I won't hear a thing. As long as the rent is on time and you keep the place clean, you can have all the privacy you want. How about it, honey? _

_Sounds perfect. I'll take it._

Nicole finished putting her clothes away in the dresser. No room in the tiny closet for her suitcase. No room under the bed, either. It wound up in the corner by the window. Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since lunch and now the sun was setting. Time to make a quick grocery run. The back door opened to an alley that led to the street. She was in decent place in a decent neighborhood. And the best part...it was within walking distance of Dr. House's apartment.


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N: I'm going to veer off the Nicole Wallace thing and concentrate on the House/Cuddy & Wilson relationship for a while. Nicole is still stalking them and Goren is still trying to find her with no success. I don't think all the endless stalking and looking will make for exciting reading. For now we'll see how the House/Cuddy relationship plays out and if House decides to move his piano._ _I'll get back to the stalking later_ ;P

* * *

For several hours the only noise came from the television as the three doctors lounged around, letting their brains shut down as some stupid horror movies played. Goren's news hung like a heavy cloud over the room. The afternoon drained away and the shadows got longer. 

"Greg?" Cuddy suddenly spoke up.

"Hmmm?" House turned and looked at her.

"Will you play the piano for me?"

House smiled at his lover. "Bring me a drink and I'll make sure there's plenty room for you on the bench."

Cuddy sprang up from the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen. Wilson looked over, intrigued. "Can I throw in a few requests?" he asked with sincere interest.

"If Lisa lets you," House replied, pulling himself up. "But I'm afraid there isn't enough room on the bench for three."

"I'm sure I can improvise," Wilson smirked and went to fetch a chair as Cuddy reappeared, awkwardly carrying three glasses and a bottle of bourbon.

"I wanted scotch," House said just to needle her.

"You said a 'drink'. You didn't specify what kind. So quit your bitching and play something." Cuddy set the glasses on top of the piano and began to pour a generous amount of bourbon into each one. Wilson set a chair beside the piano and sat down, looking at House with anticipation.

"Any requests, boss?"

"Something that will make us appreciate your fine piano skills," she said, handing a drink to the oncologist.

"You got it," House said, and launched into Mozart.

Cuddy sat next to him and slipped an arm around his waist, being careful to let him have enough elbow room as his hands effortlessly slid up and down the eighty-eight keys. No sheet music, she noted. She wondered just how many songs House had filed away in his brain. From the corner of her eye she saw Wilson lean back in his chair with his head slightly tilted, listening to the fine music and appreciating what fine music it was.

The classics filled the air–Beethoven, Chopin, more Mozart–swirling through the air, under the tables and chairs, pressing against the windows. House played on and on, pausing only to finish a song and start another and take a drink, until Wilson asked, "Do you know any jazz piano?"

"Is that a question or a dare?" House gave his friend mischievous, knowing glare and grabbed a pile of sheet music.

Wilson raised the stakes. "Know any from memory?"

"And if I do? What's in it for me?"

"My everlasting gratitude and your chance to gloat."

"Why, Jimmy," the diagnostician pretended to scold while tossing a stern grade-school teacher look his way. "If I were a betting man I'd say you didn't like the great composers. Shame on you. And here I thought you actually had a touch of class when it came to music, even if you have lousy taste when it comes to wives."

"Is that your long-winded way of saying you don't know any jazz piano?" Wilson challenged, deliberately ignoring the comment about his wives in hopes that House wouldn't bring it up again.

"Are you requesting some, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm...like I said, it's up to Boss Lady here," House said as Cuddy rested her chin on his shoulder. "What do you say, Lisa? Should we let Jimmy have his way or are you going to use your evil super-powers as Dean of Medicine and overrule him?"

She pretended to weight the options. "I don't know...do I feel like being naughty or nice?"

"Oh, come on, Cuddy!" Wilson snorted and threw up his hands. "It's not like I gave him my kidney and want it back! I just want to hear some jazzy tunes."

"And I want George Clooney to give me a foot massage, that doesn't mean I'm going to get it."

"Oh, please..." The brown-eyed man shook his head, amused and exasperated.

"But I can get some brownies," she said. "And you can make them."

"With what? My good looks?"

"There's brownie mix in the cupboard," she informed him.

"How long has it been sitting there?"

"Long enough for you to get out of my chair and make them," House answered. "Or I put on my Yoko Ono albums until your ears bleed and you're begging on your knees for my composition of Beethoven's grocery list."

Wilson remained seated. "Play some jazz first."

"Brownies first."

"Jazz."

"Brownies."

"_Jazz_!"

"_Brownies_!"

"Greg," Cuddy broke in. "Play some jazz. I want to hear it too. Music, then brownies. Okay?"

House smirked. "For you, Lisa, and for brownies, I'll play jazz, pop, funk, acid rock and country all rolled into one."

He launched right into 'Second Time Around' and followed it up with 'Round Midnight'.

The brownies were delicious. House ate three of them.


	35. Chapter 35

House looked up from his laptop and frowned. "What?" he growled irritably at Cameron and Foreman.

"What were you doing all the way up in New York?" Cameron asked, her eyes narrowed and suspicious.

He typed in the password to his e-mail and answered, "I'd like to know that myself."

Foreman leaned onto House's desk. "What the hell happened to Cuddy's nose?"

"You're a doctor and you can't see that it's broken? If you really want the scoop go ask Cuddy, since it's her nose and all."

"I did. She said she's too busy to talk," the neurologist replied. "It obviously wasn't you or else she'd be mopping the floor with your face."

House leveled his gaze at Foreman, the expression on his scruffy face could have melted the glass door of his office. "No, it wasn't me," the older doctor said cooly. "But I'm more than happy to pass that message along so she can mop the floor with your sorry ass. Then I'll dunk your face into the mop water and clean the toilets with it."

"House, please." Cameron stepped in before any punches had a chance to be thrown. "What the hell happened to you and Cuddy and Wilson?"

"We had a very long three-way. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a lame attempt at being witty. What happened?"

"You don't want to know."

"House–"

"Cameron, you don't want to know." His voice was as sharp as a razor blade and cold as an iceberg in January. "The reason Cuddy or Wilson or I won't tell you anything is because the less any of you know, the better."

Foreman straightened up. "Why can't you–"

"Because you don't want to know," House told them. "You don't want to be involved in this. All I can say is that if you see a blonde woman with an English accent, run like hell."

* * *

"Hello?" Wilson drolled languidly into his phone. 

He insisted that he couldn't stand another night of sleeping on his friend's sofa and went home. Cuddy threatened him with bodily harm if one them didn't call the other to check in. She dialed his number as soon as she dug her cell phone out of her purse while House made sure the front door was locked good and tight.

"How's it going?" Cuddy asked, and swivelled her legs across House's lap as they made themselves comfortable on the sofa. The television clicked on at top volume. Dammit, he was watching that stupid wrestling again. She had to plug her other ear to hear Wilson talk.

"Everything's fine in my neck of the woods," he answered, hearing what sounded like a full stadium in a frenzy at her end of the phone. "How about you? Any, um...sightings?"

"Not a one. That's about as good as it gets, all things considered."

"What is all that noise?"

"Greg is watching wrestling."

Wilson snickered at the obvious disgust in her voice, then heard House yell in the background, "_Wilson, tell her she has no taste! Wrestling is a real sport, goddammit_!"

"Dr. Cuddy, you have no taste," the oncologist obediently repeated.

"So I've heard. Thank you for the tip," she laughed into her phone, playfully punching her lover in the shoulder. "Call us tomorrow morning? Call my phone. Greg will throw his against the wall and he knows better than to touch mine."

"You got it." In the background he heard House's voice again. _"That's it. Your phone is going into the garbage disposal, Lisa_."

"Thank you, Wilson. Good night."

"Oh, Cuddy?"

"Yes?"

"Wrestling is faker than a five dollar Rolex."

"I'll pass that on. Good night." She closed up her phone and set it on the table, where it would remain untouched by House's hands. "Wilson says wrestling is fake."

House smirked and said, "Fake, huh? Faker than what? A string of pearls bought from a street vendor?"

"He said a five dollar Rolex."

"My version is faker. A fake string of pearls is a fake string of pearls no matter how pretty they are. A fake watch is still right twice a day."

She couldn't argue with that logic. On the television, sweaty guys on steroids threw each other across the ring. She found herself sulking and wondering if the History Channel finally ran out of WWII documentaries. _Wrestling_. For Pete's sake, what on earth did he find so entertaining about _that_? He sometimes watched that trash when he spent the night at her house. She always found it to be the perfect opportunity to catch up on her journals or see if there was any laundry that suddenly needed to be washed at 9pm.

She wasn't in the mood to sit through that crap tonight. She smiled to herself and not-so-subtlety let her hand drift over to his good thigh.

"Guess what, Greg?"

"Yeah?" He was absorbed in his show and not paying any attention to her. Yet.

"Wilson isn't here. We're all alone."

Her hand was now rubbing his inner thigh, the denim fabric of his jeans softly scraping against her palm. Now she had his full attention. He managed to tear his gaze away from the fake sport. His stupid show was now forgotten as she continued to move her fingers all along his leg, then leaned over to kiss his cheek. It was time to play a real sport and she was going to coach.

"So we are, Lisa. So we are," he murmured and returned her kiss.

"We haven't been all alone in a while. How should we make up for the lost time?"

He picked up the remote and clicked off the television. "Wanna wrestle?"


	36. Chapter 36

She was like silk running through his fingers, like warm water flowing over him. The natural smoothness of her skin never failed to draw a gasp out of him as she pressed her body against his. Then the last of her self-control slipped away and she let him take charge. That was his favorite part–when she remembered that she was off the clock and didn't have to be the boss anymore. Ebony ribbons of her hair splashed against the pillow. He looked down at her with a crooked half-smile, then he saw it. Her vulnerability. When she stripped herself naked in every sense of the word. When she was his _lover_. If he had been standing his knees would have buckled and he would have been an aching, crumpled pile on the floor. And it would have been worth it.

Her gaze locked with his, her eyes liquid crystal. He was unable to look away, not that he wanted to. He was taking his time and was going to make sure she enjoyed every last second. Her eyes closed briefly with satisfaction and she hummed with contentment as he traced his fingers down the silky smoothness of her face and neck. Every curve, every hollow, every inch of her body, he knew it all blindfolded. She shivered under his touch. Shivered in delight. His heart skipped a beat or three.

The crystal eyes opened again. They were pleading with him. They were saying what she wasn't saying out loud. She wasn't talking because she didn't have to. He could hear her loud and clear.

_Please..._

Who was he to say no?

* * *

Wilson noticed that House had been quieter than usual. Not just quiet but _reflective_. Something was obviously making the gears in House's head work overtime. At first Wilson thought his friend was worried that Elizabeth would make a return visit. That was on his mind, of course; then Wilson found out what was really weight heavily on House's thoughts, and his neck nearly got broken with the sucker-punch of a revelation. 

"Lisa thinks we should move in together," House nonchalantly announced after he had made himself comfortable on the couch in Wilson's office.

After regaining the ability to speak, the oncologist said, "What do you think?"

"I don't know."

From the look on House's face Wilson could see that he really didn't know what to think.

"You two haven't talked about this yet?" Wilson asked.

"Not yet."

"So...why are you talking to _me_? Does she want me to move in too?"

"I'm talking to you because I want some honest advice," House replied, shooting his friend a warning glance. "But if alphabetizing your precious files can't wait a few minutes–"

"I can spare a few minutes. But only a few minutes." Wilson pushed his files to the side and leaned back in his chair. "What is it, House?"

"She thinks we're ready to take the next step."

"And you don't?"

"That's the thing. I don't know."

"Well, I don't know what to say except you should talking about this with her, not me."

"I will...I will...it's just..." House trailed off and looked at the floor.

Wilson folded his arms across his stomach and knew what his friend really wanted. He didn't want to be talked into making a decision, he wanted to be talked out of making the wrong decision. Whatever that was.

"What are you afraid of, House?"

The diagnostician made eye contact again and said, "I have the sinking feeling that no matter what I choose, it's going to be the wrong choice and I'm going to blow it. If I say no, she's never going to let me forget it. If I say yes, we're going to end up hating each other."

"You see this as a lose-lose situation." Wilson was now intrigued. "Why?"

"I'm not very good these things, relationship-wise. I never have been."

"You and Cuddy have been together for quite a while now."

"Yes, we have."

"She really loves you. Even a fool like you must see that."

"Stevie Wonder could see it," House said. "And a fool like me."

"And a fool like me," Wilson said, noting the surprise on House's face. "When you came home after...whatever happened in New York, I checked on the two of you. You were laying there on the bed with your head in her lap, sound asleep, and she was watching over you, making sure you were you okay. You didn't remember who the hell she was, but that didn't stop her for a second. She hadn't slept all night, she was completely drained, but there she was being protective of you...and now when I think of the two of you together, I keep going back to that moment. She's there for you, House, and no matter what you might have forgotten, you damn well better not forget that."

"I know," House said quietly. "I haven't forgotten that."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that," Wilson said, pushing his files back in front of him. "She's going to want you to play the piano for her, whether you move in together or not. Don't forget that either."


	37. Chapter 37

She knew better than to get her hopes up, but Cuddy couldn't help but have a daydream or two about playing house with House. It wouldn't be the perfect Ward and June Cleaver domestic bliss, not that she was ever holding out for that sort of thing to begin with. But she did feel that House was ready to make a commitment to her. It had been a long and rocky path to get over his feelings for Stacy. Now Stacy was gone forever. Cuddy was here. And she was planning on staying around for a very long time.

It still felt like it was too soon to bring it up. Though House was hardly going anywhere, he already had enough on his mind. She didn't want to nag him and she wasn't going to. He would bring it up when he was damn good and ready and not one second sooner.

So imagine her surprise, three days after he had challenged her to a wrestling match, that he brought the subject up in his own peculiar way after they had moved to the sofa to relax after dinner.

"Maybe I need a woman's touch around this place," he said in a tone he usually reserved for commenting on the weather or idiotic patients that crossed his path.

"Really?" She wasn't sure if he was serious or not, but decided to play along.

"Really. I'm not talking about rosy wallpaper and pink couches. Just a few little womanly decorations here and there to let her presence be known." He encircled her waist and pulled her over to him, so they both had a grand view of the living room. "If you had your way, Lisa, what would you bring here?"

She laughed softly and said, "I think you could get away with a few scented candles."

"Not those giant tacky candles, I hope."

"No, nothing like that."

"Where would you put them?"

"I'd put one or two here on the table. Maybe one top of the television and on the piano."

"I could live with that. But I can't live with overpowering, perfumed scents. Those give me a headache."

"I don't like those either. There's vanilla scented, nothing too strong. There's lavender or peach or cinnamon. Those are quite nice and they won't make your eyes water."

"All right, Miss Cinnamon and Lilac. You've sold me on the candles." He planted a few playful kisses on her neck tickling the sensitive skin.

Her pulse picked up. Was he really talking about candles and decorations? Did he really want a woman's touch in the sacred domain that was his apartment? Was he going to take that next step for her?

"What else?" he asked, sounding sincerely interested.

"I think you could use some new curtains," she said. She thought no such thing, but wanted to see how he take her suggestion. Either he would start to hyperventilate or go with the flow.

"I think so too," he agreed, and she nearly fell off the sofa. "Nothing frilly, okay?"

"Okay." The word barely squeaked out of her throat.

"Maybe a light blue, or maybe even cream. But no pink."

"No pink," she repeated. "You got it."

"Good. Anything else, boss?"

"I think you could use some new sheets and a new bedspread."

"You think I can get away with having buttercup yellow sheets, Lisa? Or is that an open invitation to get my ass kicked?"

"I won't tell if you won't tell."

"Sounds good to me."

House appeared to be enjoying himself and the conversation. Cuddy was beside herself.

"And I'll need a night table and lamp by my side of bed, Greg," she threw in, "so I can keep up with my journals."

"You got it, boss. No candles in the bedroom, please."

"All right. No candles in there."

"All right," he echoed. "No drastic changes? You don't want a few of the walls knocked down or a new kitchen set or a sunken tub?"

"No, I like your apartment the way it is," she replied truthfully. "But a sunken tub sounds _great_–"

"Why am I not surprised?" he snickered, and hugged her closer. "Okay, boss, fair is fair. It's my turn."

"For what?" She tilted her head up to look at him.

"I get to add a man's touch to your place," House answered in a rather matter-of-fact manner. "I have a few ideas of my own."

She took his hand and asked, "What would a manly man like you add to my place?"

"New curtains."

"I do need new curtains," Cuddy had to agree.

"A sunken tub."

"I like the sound of that."

"A few of my guitars on the walls."

"Of course."

"And a little rearranging for my piano."

That gave her a pause. "I'll see what I can do."

"Please do," he said in all seriousness. "But if you can't find a way to make it fit, just remember there's always room here for a woman's touch."


	38. Chapter 38

Though there was still a long way to go in the whole moving-in-together situation, Cuddy felt it was going well. House was taking it seriously, well, as serious as he could get in the early stages of planning. They spent the next night at her place so they could see what, if anything, needed to be moved, rearranged, packed away. No final decisions had been made. That was fine with Cuddy. She wasn't going to rush him. It wasn't like a few more weeks or months of taking turns at each other's humble homes would make that much of a difference. Besides, House was making that commitment. He was ready to make a change...for her. That meant so much more than figuring out where his piano was going to go.

That definitely called for a little something special. He certainly deserved it. So did she.

* * *

"Mmmm...I love surprises," House said, grinning salaciously while sitting on the corner of her desk. "But tell me, what have I done to deserve this?" 

"You're taking my request to move in with me seriously," she answered, resting her chin on her hands. "You're taking _us_ seriously. You're back here doing your job and driving everyone up the wall."

House tilted his head. "_That_ deserves a reward? You usually threaten to move my parking space or torture me with more clinic hours."

"I could do that, too," she replied. "Everyone is coming to me and complaining about you. One of your clinic patients threatened to sue you and the hospital yesterday. That means everything is getting back to normal."

"Well, Lisa, whoever thought that the threat of lawsuit would be such a wonderful thing. Is this your roundabout way of telling me that I'm going to have to make up all the clinic hours I missed? It's not like I planned that little side trip to New York. Surely you're not going to hold that against me."

"I don't." Her expression suddenly serious. "Greg, when you were gone...in New York...I was afraid that I would never see you again." He didn't reply, so she went on. "When you didn't recognize me or anyone else, and when you kept calling Wilson by the wrong name, I was afraid you never get your memory back."

"You and _James_ don't have to worry about that anymore."

"But having you back here with me, and back at the hospital doing what you do best...complaints and threats are worth it when I realize what I and this hospital could have lost."

He looked away, out the window. A rosy blush began at his temple and spread down his neck to his shirt collar. For once he didn't have a snappy comeback because he was too embarrassed by being caught off guard by her statement.

"Thank you," he muttered after finding his voice again.

"You're more than welcome," Cuddy said, gloating inwardly. It wasn't often that she rendered him speechless. "Did you call Bobby?"

"I left him a message this morning. He hasn't called back. I called Alex but she wasn't in either. I'm sure they'll let us know if something happens."

"Yes, they will," she agreed, then decided to get back to the subject of them. "Coming over tonight?"

"I might be able to clear some time in my terribly busy schedule. I don't do that for just anybody, being such a dedicated doctor and all."

"Can you handle sleeping in my too-small bed again tonight?"

"Can you handle me in your bed, boss?"

"I'm sure you'd like to find out, not that you already don't know or anything. If you want your surprise, you're going to have to come and get it."

"Is that a sexual proposition I hear coming from you, Lisa?"

"Yes."

"You're just itching for another lawsuit, aren't you?"

"You better believe it. See you in court, Dr. House."

"You're on, boss."

* * *

"This better be worth the wait!" House called from her bed, half naked. 

When she walked in wearing a red satin babydoll with black lace that barely covered the matching panties, he decided it was worth every single second he had to lay there.

"Why, boss," he gaped, taking in the lovely sight in front of him. "You certainly have a unique way settling your lawsuits."

"I haven't settled anything," she declared, her lip curling into a satisfied smile. "I've won."

"Not yet."

"You like?" She spun around. The red satin burned itself into his corneas.

"Okay, you win," he laughed, all to be happy to be the loser this time. "You can have every penny to my name. Now come here."

"I don't want your money," Cuddy teased as she walked over and climbed up next to him, then let her fingers trail down his chest to the waistband of his boxers.

"No, boss, my money means nothing to you." House's voice became a low, throaty growl. "You dragged me over here because you couldn't wait to put this on so I could take it off."

"Oh, God, yes," she gasped as his callused hand stroked the equally satiny skin of her inner thigh. The flimsy babydoll suddenly felt like a heavy wool blanket; she crawled on top of him and ground her pelvis into his. "What the hell are you waiting for?"


	39. Chapter 39

It didn't take long for the babydoll and matching panties to end up on the floor, followed by his boxers a few moments later. Then there was delicious sensation of skin on skin, all over her, inside of her; and his intoxicating musky scent. Gentle kisses down the long line of her neck, then back up again. She grabbed handfuls of his hair, then wrapped her legs tighter around him, urging him along. He was more than happy to oblige. His strong arms enveloped her, pulling them closer together as if he could actually be close enough to her and...oh, God...where did he learn to do _that_? Oh yes, right there. Do that again. _Again_. He nibbled at her lower lip, ever careful of her still-sore nose, burning the hell out of her chin with his perpetual stubble, not that she could really register it as the waves began to rise higher and higher. From far away she could hear him talking nonsense, _Come on, Lisa_..._oh, fuck!_ and his hand slid down her thigh and he felt _so good_, then the waves crashed and her back arched and her voice yelling out his name echoed inside her head.

"Oh...my..._God_...," House gasped as his own waves crashed, and he collapsed in a sweaty, breathless, gorgeous mess on top of her.

Their gazes locked, two sets of blue eyes; one stubborn and scarred behind them, the other longing and yearning. Their intensities matched, and for a moment their fields of vision were filled with blue, wider than the sky and deeper than the sea. His musicians fingers gently pushed back strands of sweat-drenched hair clinging to her forehead.

Something pulled House out of his reverie. He winced, his leg was cramping. One last lingering kiss, then rolled over onto his back and stretched out, groaning with what sounded like sincere disappointment that they had to become separate halves again.

Right beside her was still too far away. Cuddy sidled up to him, up against his left side so she could pick up where he was forced to leave off without worrying about causing his thigh anymore undue pain, accidental or otherwise. Her fingers twisted and teased through his chest hair. An arm curling around her shoulder let her know that he was more than pleased. He lifted off the bed for a moment as he reached for his pills. The ever familiar rattle of the bottle–she should be used to it by now. It only reminded her that some things ran deeper than his scar, and were all but untouchable. Nevermind that now. A sigh of contentment from House reached her ears.

The room was getting chilly. Thankfully his leg pain wasn't all that bad and he maneuvered himself under the covers to join her without too much griping. Cuddy almost got up to check the thermostat when the heater kicked on, fluttering the curtains under the vent.

He had been laying on top of the covers while waiting for her to come into the bedroom and show off her new lingerie. In nothing but his boxers. And he hadn't bothered to cover up his scar. Any other time there would have been a blanket across his legs. Any other time he would have snapped at her for looking at it, whether she was or not.

She didn't call him on it. Some things were better left unsaid...and forgotten.

He wanted to live with her. That was worth thinking about. Not his pills. Not his scars.

"Boss?" he muttered. "Lisa?"

"Hmm?"

"Was it good for you?"

Gregory House was back and snarky as ever. She pinched his stomach harder than necessary.

"Ow!" he yelped, then House chuckled and said, "I'll take that as a great big orgasmic _yes_..._oh yes_."

* * *

It was just a casual stroll through the streets of Princeton, to get the feel of her new neighborhood and a quick check on the gimp and his whore to see what they were up to. Her hair was up in a hat and the brim said hat was pulled down to cover her face. The neighborhood was well lit and there were plenty of other people out and about; kids playing kickball in their yards, college boys enjoying a beer on the porch; she didn't look any different from anyone else. Just another person out to get some fresh air. A crescent moon hung in the clear night sky. 

Nicole was a little disappointed to see that the 221B was dark. No sign of his motorcycle. He must be spending the night over at the whore's place. She thought about breaking in but quickly dismissed the idea. No...it was too soon and some busybody neighbor might notice the lights coming on in his place when there shouldn't be any and call the cops. Or the gimp could be on a quick grocery run and be on his way back right now. Better to wait and make sure no unexpected guests were going to come barging in. She wasn't about to make such a stupid mistake. Oh, Goren would _love_ that...his archenemy being put away forever after being caught during a run-of-the-mill breaking and entering. She might as well let herself get pulled over and show the cop a driver's license with her real name on it, or march over to Goren's desk and put the cuffs on herself.

She walked passed the apartment without really giving it another glance and continued up the road until she found a convenience store. The walk was a nice bit of exercise but it was time to turn around. It was over a mile back to her place; she bought a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip granola bar for the trip.

It was starting to get cold and she picked up her pace. She was seriously starting to hate the East and the cold, clammy, fall weather that gave way to seemingly endless winters. Too bad she wasn't back in Australia, the seasons were reversed and it was almost summertime down there. Time to find a warmer climate after she was done in New Jersey.

Or maybe pay Eames a visit with a syringe full of strychnine first. That might worth missing summer back home.


	40. Chapter 40

"Are you sure there's enough room?" House asked as he watched Cuddy scribble down meticulous notes about what, if anything, needed to go and what needed to stay and if the damn piano could fit in her home.

She tapped the pen on the table. A fluffy pink bathrobe clung to her frame, and her damp hair was combed back. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure. It's actually getting it in here that I'm not sure about. You wouldn't happen to know the dimensions of that thing, would you?"

"Nope. Never thought I would have to."

"How did you get it through your apartment door?"

"I didn't. The moving guys did. If they got in there, they should be able to get in here without too much trouble. You know if you move in with me, the piano wouldn't have to moved at all."

"I know," she said, resting her chin in her hand. "I just want to be sure."

"Maybe I should just sell it and get a little electronic keyboard."

"Over my dead body, and yours," Cuddy said, almost is if she thought he was serious. "It's staying with us. We're still in the very early stages of planning here. It's not like your packing everything up and moving here over the weekend."

"You haven't brought any scented candles over to my place, boss." House's eyes glinted with amusement.

"There's always tomorrow," Cuddy remarked. "How long have you lived in that apartment?"

"Fifteen years."

"Did you ever want to move?"

"No, not really. I like it there...and I don't think I could have even if I wanted to. Nobody else would hire me even before the infarction...and then after...it was easier to stay where I was. It was less painful that way."

He got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. Cuddy noted how reflective he had been, how strangely calm he had been when coming to this new crossroad in his life. He was a man who avoided change if at all possible because he had to have a safety zone he could go back to. His apartment. Where he went when everything else got to be too much. And now he was willing to give that up.

"We can move your bed in here, too," she said as she watched him limp over and sit back down.

"We can?"

"It's bigger and has more room to stretch out. It will be better for your leg."

"How can you stand to sleep on that tiny bed of yours?" he asked in mock disgust. "You barely fit on it, let alone someone as tall as I am..."

"I fit on my bed just fine. You've slept on it just fine," she pointed out, then looked back down at her notes. "Plenty of times. And you're going to sleep on it again tonight."

"My leg doesn't take too kindly to sleeping on the floor."

"I didn't think so."

"My leg doesn't take too kindly to a lot of things. You have no objection to having a bench in the bathtub?"

"No."

"You have no objection to watching my shows?"

"As long as you have no objection to watching mine." She went back to scribbling notes.

"You have no objection to my pills?"

Her pen froze in mid-word. She looked up, her eyes questioning. He was looking across the room, sipping his coffee and waiting for an answer. The pills. It was going to come up sooner or later, but she had hoped to be one to bring it up later; hoped to get him to cut down or switch to something else, preferably non-narcotic.

He was testing her. But what she didn't know was what he was testing her for. After all this time the pills and his addiction weren't going to send her screaming into the street. He knew that. Just what sort of answer was he looking for, if any at all?

"You're pills are another discussion for another time," she answered, leaving it wide open to interpretation. "After everything that's happened, and what we're planning right now, why do you want to talk about your pills? Are you in pain? Did you run out?"

"No, I'm fine, but it's a discussion we've had before," he said flatly.

"And we'll have it again. But not now."

"When?" House asked with sincerity. He wanted to know.

"When it's time. Now is not the time." She finished up whatever she was writing and closed the notebook. "Now it's time to go back to bed. Coming with me?"

"That depends. Will you sleep on the floor with me tonight?"

"I don't think so."

He stood up and a ghost of a smile tugged on his mouth. "Well then, I don't have much a choice, do I? Maybe it's time I got new bedding, something that goes a little better with your decor. What do you think, boss?"


	41. Chapter 41

This wasn't supposed to happened. Not to him. He was supposed to be holed up in his apartment, alone and bitter, ending another worthless evening drunk or stoned or both. Drinking and endlessly popping the little white pills to try and keep the agonizing, wicked pain from consuming him. During the day he would put on the protective shield of arrogance so no one would see how insecure, depressed, damaged and angry he really was. That was how it was supposed to be. That's how it was for many long years. Far too long.

Then one drunk night he got the bright idea of knocking on Lisa Cuddy's door. He had stopped by her house to yell at her, to provoke her into yelling back...and how everything snowballed from there until he found himself unable to stop it, mostly because he didn't want to stop it. Funny how things turned out. It wasn't quite what he expected, but he wasn't in the mood to try and make U-turn on the path of karma.

Now here he was, sitting on the edge of her bed in the middle of night...the same bed that wasn't quite big enough for his tall frame. The bed that would soon be replaced with his because he was going to be moving in with her. Out of his apartment and into her home. He was going to be sharing her home and his life with her. They were a couple and couples lived together. That's the sort of thing couples did. Gregory House was on the verge of being _domesticated_. And the idea didn't terrify him. It didn't send him running back to the safety of his lonely apartment and his addiction and his misanthropy. In fact, he was getting a strange thrill out of the whole thing. He was moving into suburbia and didn't mind it at all. Well, maybe just a little bit. He was hardly yuppie material. The neighbors were going to have to get used to that or move.

The woman in his thoughts was sleeping soundly with one arm stretched across his side of the bed. She liked to cuddle against him when they were in bed. He had hated that at first, but she wouldn't give up and his aversion to being touched was slowly chipped away until she had broken through, wrapped herself around him and refused to let go. He still didn't like being touched, but he would usually let it slide if it was Cuddy doing the touching. And she knew all the right places to touch.

Before the restlessness and insomnia finally drove him to get up and move around for a while, he had spent the last few hours the woman he loved in his arms, the fragrant scent of her shampoo wafting all around, her love for him rolling off in waves. She loved him. That's all there was to it, and that alone was worth the trouble of moving to a new home.

Feeling tired again, he carefully lifted up her arm so he could lay back down. She woke up anyway.

"Where are you going?" she mumbled groggily, blindly clutching at his chest, then his neck.

"Nowhere," he said, holding her wrist away so she wouldn't accidently claw his eyes out, and gently pushing her aside so he would have some room. "I just had to use the bathroom."

"Stop leaving me alone in the middle of the night," Cuddy grumbled while getting comfortable, draping herself like a blanket over his chest again.

"Okay, I'll stop." He wasn't going to stop his midnight excursions to the living room to watch television, play some music, or just stare at the walls because he couldn't sleep, but at the moment it was just easier to agree with her.

"That's right." Her voice had a firm, pleased, satisfied lilt to it, like she knew she had won whatever battle she had been fighting. "You're staying right _here_."

"Go back to sleep, honey," House said softly, and it didn't take long for her to do just that.

He drifted, detached and floating for a while, enjoying that otherwordly bliss between awareness and dreamland.

Then it hit him like a wrecking ball, shattering his relaxed state. His eyes flew open.

He had called her _honey_.

The thought of waking her up again and having to explain himself was the only thing that kept him from doubling over with laughter.

* * *

There wasn't anything to see outside the window except the parking lot and the infinite night beyond that, but Robert Goren kept staring at it anyway. 

The table was piled with printouts, articles and folders. Nearly every piece of paper had the name Nicole Wallace or Elizabeth Hitchens on it. There were nearly a dozen pictures of the petite blonde woman smiling at the camera like she was just any other tourist enjoying a vacation. The average person looking at her picture would never guess that she was a serial killer. But Goren knew her, perhaps too well. Her pretty, glowing smile couldn't hide the monster he saw behind it.

Earlier that day Eames had told him he was getting obsessed. Goren pretended to ignore her. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she was right. Anyway, he felt he had every right to be obsessed. Nicole Wallace had started it and he was going to finish it no matter what it took.

She was still out there, watching and waiting. The woman had great deal of patience. But it wouldn't last forever. The bloodlust would eventually rise up begin its slow burn in her brain. Yes, she was out there somewhere. Maybe she was cloaked in the darkness just outside the lights of the parking lot, looking right him. Let her look until her eyes dried up, or take more pictures if that's what she wanted. The torn up picture of his brother was in an evidence bag somewhere. Goren felt his stomach twist and tasted bile in his mouth. One of these days Nicole Wallace was going to prison or was going to end up dead, and either way the last thing she was going to see was his face before she took her final breath of free air.


	42. Chapter 42

"I was so busy worrying about your piano I forgot you had all these books," Cuddy remarked, walking up and down the hall while studying his bookcases. "Did you read all these?"

"Not hardly," House answered from the sofa where Wilson was moving her notebook out of the way and refilling their glasses with bourbon.

"Have you read _any _of them?"

"A few. Does it really matter?"

She looked over her shoulder at House. "Why do have them if you can't be bothered to read them?"

"They make me look smart."

"You _are_ smart," she said. "And you damn well know it and like to remind everyone of that fact every hour on the hour."

"I know," he answered without a hint of irony. "But it never hurts to have a few extra books around to play it up. I did graduate from a distinguished medical school, you know, not from Doctors 'R' Us."

"Well, you're going to have to do something with them." Cuddy stood with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot on the hardwood floor. "I don't have room for all of these."

"I'll take a few," Wilson piped up.

House glared at his friend. "Who was offering you any?"

"Greg," Cuddy said. "You're going to have to part with some of these. I simply don't have room."

The diagnostician pouted. "But they're _mine_ and I want to keep them."

"Keep them at my place," Wilson offered. "I have some extra room."

"What will Julie say?" House asked with a raised eyebrow. Julie wasn't exactly his biggest fan and had visions of her torching his books in a backyard bonfire dance through his head. "I mean besides the usual bitching and moaning that you're doing something for me and not her."

"I'll say they're Cuddy's. Julie has always liked Cuddy." Wilson thought his friend had asked a flippant I-couldn't-care-less question, yet he still felt compelled to answer it anyway. He glanced over at House, who didn't appear to be listening to what he was saying.

"Really?" The Dean of Medicine looked surprised.

"Julie likes anyone who isn't House," the oncologist explained.

"Give her my love when you get home," House smirked.

Wilson smirked back and said, "I'll give her mine first."

"Do you have any boxes?" Cuddy asked, walking over to join him on the sofa. "We're going to need lots and lots of boxes."

"A few in the closets. Not nearly enough to pack up all my stuff."

Cuddy looked pleadingly at the oncologist. "Wilson...?"

"I should have some," he said.

House turned to his lover and asked, "What's the hurry, boss?"

"No hurry," she said, taking her glass of bourbon. "It's just that you can't take all of this stuff with you and we need to figure out what can go in my house and what can't."

"Isn't going to be _our_ house now, boss, or am I going to be charged rent?"

"Our house, of course," she replied with a big smile.

"So when's the big move-in day?" Wilson asked with sincere curiosity.

"I don't know," House said, looking over at Cuddy. "You'll have to ask her."

She took a long sip of her drink before answering. "Aside from the piano, we still need to figure out what stays and what goes."

"My bed is going," House remarked pointedly, as if it were the most important detail, one that could not be overlooked no matter what. "Right? Isn't that what you said?"

"I know, we've already talked about that."

"As soon as possible."

"Yes, Greg," Cuddy said with a roll of her eyes. She picked up her notebook from the table and scribbled some more notes. "You don't have to worry."

"And I suppose I'll be volunteered to help against my will?" Wilson asked if it were a foregone conclusion, while swirling the last drops of bourbon around in his glass. "Do I have a choice in this?"

"Nope," his boss replied curtly. "I can hardly do this by myself and Greg can only do so much. Help us out and I'll buy you a fabulous dinner at the best restaurant in town."

"My leg comes in quite handy sometimes," House gloated with barely disguised delight at not having to do any heavy lifting.

Wilson grinned and said, "How about a raise instead?"

"How about dinner or I'll give all of Greg's clinic hours for the next month to you."

"I want lobster, champagne and caviar."

"Consider it done."

"And flaming cherries jubilee for dessert."

"Deal."

"Me too!" House said. "I wanna watch those cherries burn!"

* * *

It was freezing and she couldn't stand it much longer, so Nicole started up the car and let it warm up a little before heading back. She didn't want to be seen hanging around the gimp's apartment too often and had started watching them from her car parked down the street. Parked in the right place, like now, she could see right into his living room. 

The whore and the other doctor, Wilson, were there, drinking like fish and yucking it up. The whore kept a notebook with her, jotting down stuff every now and then, filling up one page and starting another. Even with binoculars, Nicole couldn't see the writing, but it looked like the three of them were making plans. Plans for what? Would Wilson be helping and be over at the apartment with them? How long was that going to take? Dammit. That certainly threw a monkey wrench into everything.

Well then, she would plan around Wilson. He certainly wouldn't be spending the night there. She would wait until he left and the gimp and his whore were drunk or asleep. Even with his sturdy new locks, breaking in shouldn't be too much trouble. One good whack on the leg would put the gimp down but good. Then the real fun would begin. She was getting anxious and giddy with excitement. The sooner the better.


	43. Chapter 43

Nicole closed the door and shook the cold off her. It wasn't enough. She turned up the heat and was still shivering, so she put some water on the stove for some tea, then sat on the bed to wait.

It was time to get the ball rolling, so to speak. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon.

She was a bit curious as to what sort of plans the gimp and whore were making. It obviously involved something heavy-duty to bring another able-bodied person into it since the gimp was useless in that department. Something to do with a patient? No, that wasn't it. If it was about a patient, wouldn't they be at hospital with said patient and looking semi-professional about it instead getting hammered on the gimp's never-ending liquor stash?

Exactly. It had nothing to do with a patient or the hospital.

She recalled Wilson and the whore pointing at various pieces of furniture and seemingly jabbering on and on about them. Rearranging the place, maybe? There was some heavy furniture in that apartment, not to mention the bookshelves and piano. But one doesn't take detailed notes for that; you just get some friends to do the heavy lifting and point to wherever you want it. Then you make them move it over two inches just to piss them off. No, it wasn't as simple as moving that ugly leather couch of his up against the wall.

The teapot began to whistle and not a moment too soon. She filled her biggest mug up to the brim and added two teabags, then sat at her tiny desk.

So not moving the furniture around probably meant he wasn't getting any new furniture delivered either. So if he wasn't getting anything new...oh, of course. Nicole smiled at her powers of deduction. Nothing was being moved _around_. Nothing was being moved _in_. It was being moved _out_. They were deciding what was staying and what was going because the gimp and the whore were going to shack up. They corralled the evidently spineless Wilson into helping them since he obviously had nothing better to do.

It really was time to get the ball rolling. Nicole sipped her tea and let the warmth spread through her. The day after tomorrow. She would watch the apartment and if Wilson was there she wait as long as took for him to leave. If the gimp and whore were all alone...well, that would make things so much quicker and easier.

* * *

"I'm actually going through with this," House muttered. 

They were relaxing on the sofa while watching the eleven o'clock news. Cuddy looked up at him, noting the tinge of anxiety in his words. "Are you having second thoughts?" she asked, bracing herself just in case he decided right then and there to call the whole thing off.

"No. I'm just amazed that I'm actually going through with it," he replied. "You have to admit, Lisa, that this is a huge, monumental event for us. Statue of Liberty huge. Mount Everest huge."

"Yes, yes it is." Cuddy didn't think it was that big of a deal for her, but it obviously was for someone like House and his need for sameness and familiarity so he could recharge his batteries after a long day. She decided to keep that thought to herself and told him, "You need to go through your books. Wilson will be bringing some boxes this weekend."

"Not now."

"I don't mean now, I mean when you get a chance."

"Like you pointed out, I've got a lot of books," he said, looking over at the bookcases. "You going to help me out with them, boss?"

"You know I will."

"Of course I do." He gave her a playful hug as the crooked half-smile made its first appearance since Wilson had decided to call it a night before he had too much to drink and had to stay and sleep on the sofa. Anyone else would mistake it for an arrogant, all-knowing smirk. But Cuddy knew him better than anyone else and could see that he was pleased with himself, with her, and with the new direction his life was taking. "Some of those books probably have more dust than paper by now. You might want to get your allergy medicine back out."

She sat up. "Thanks for the warning."

"Are we saving the piano for last?"

"It would be a good idea to save the heavy things until last, or at least wait until your living room is cleared out so it will be easier to move."

"Does that mean the bed is going wait, too?"

"Yes, I think so." She saw him frown. "I know you don't like it, but it's going to have to be put off for the time being. Let's get the smaller things moved over first."

"Your bed sucks."

"So you've said. But that didn't stop you from ripping off my babydoll and screwing my brains out in it."

"Neither would a bed of nails, but that's not my point, boss."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Is there a point?"

He grinned and said, "If there is a point it would have to be that I like screwing your brains out, and I'm looking forward to the first night spent in _our_ bed in _our_ home."

Cuddy grinned back. "What a coincidence, Dr. House. So am I."


	44. Chapter 44

It was 11pm. Everything was in place. The lock-picking tools and mace were in the inside pocket of her jacket, the camera was in the large pocket. Her suitcase and laptop were in the trunk. In a bag behind the driver's seat was a change of clothes and a wig. An envelope full of cash was left on the dining room table, the landlady's name written in neat block letters. _How could such a nice girl commit such a horrible crime? She couldnt have. See, she left me double the rent!_

The binoculars were on her lap as there hadn't been anything worth paying attention to for a while, just the gimp and his ever present slut eating leftovers from the take-away that Wilson had brought over.

Wilson himself had left about half an hour earlier. The only thing between Nicole Wallace and her goal was a locked door.

She was dressed in black from head to toe, her hair in a black stocking cap; a cliché, but cliché's become cliché's for a reason and she wasn't one to argue with that. A pair of sturdy work boots fit snugly on her feet–all the better to send someone's teeth scattering across the floor. A syringe full of strychnine was in a hidden pocket sewn into her trousers, just in case. Though she just wanted to smash the slut's face in while the useless cripple watched, she had no qualms about killing one or the other or both should things get out of hand. Maybe she should go ahead and kill them just for the hell of it. Let them say hi to Frank Goren and join him in junkie hell. Well, she needed to get into the apartment first. One thing at a time.

There were more cars parked on the street than usual, so she was a little further away than she wanted to be and the view into one of the front windows was partially blocked by a truck. Nicole sat and waited patiently for the lights in 221B to go out as her endless well of memories and hum of passing cars kept her company.

A shadow was approaching along the sidewalk. It passed her without pausing, a hugely fat man. He lumbered up the truck and heaved his considerable bulk into it. The truck fired up with a roar and a bang; the pungent smell of exhaust soon filled the air. It pulled out into the street and was soon a pair of fading taillights.

Her view now unobstructed, Nicole put the binoculars back up to her eyes. The whore was gathering up the dishes. The gimp finished his drink and handed her the glass. _Here, bitch, take this, too. Good dog_. _Now fetch my drugs and my slippers and Daddy will give you a nice bone._ The whore smiled at him, then carried the dishes out of view as he kept his lazy ass on the couch and watched television. A few minutes later Cuddy reappeared and curled up next to him like the good little doggy she was. All that was missing was a newspaper in her mouth. Or a flea collar around her neck.

The binoculars were set on the passenger seat. They usually watched TV for another hour before going to bed. Not worth staring at.

A quick glance around the street told her that no cops appeared to be nearby. She slouched down in the seat just low enough so she could still see the lights from the gimp's apartment windows. Their golden glow disappeared into her peripheral vision and a projection of the future filled the windshield. Dr. House, the worthless gimp, now barely able to walk after a few well-placed kicks to the thigh a from the sturdy work boots, telling the story to a Keystone cop from a wheelchair. The whore with her sparkling white teeth missing and jaw wired shut and maybe a black eye or two. Wilson taking it all in as those big dumb eyes of his get wider and wider with shock. And don't forget Bobby Goren, standing there furious because she had slipped through his fingers again.

Poor, poor Goren. It must be so very frustrating to watch his worst enemy stay one step ahead of him time and time again. Nicole might have felt sorry for him if she weren't the cause of all his misery. Goren and his relentless investigating came into her life after she had managed to bullshit her way into a job as a literature professor. And if she were to be honest was pretty damned good at that job. Of course Goren wasn't interested in an run-of-the-mill literature professor, he was interested in the murderess who was pretending to be something she wasn't and leaving a trail of bodies in her wake. Usually playing a cop like a fiddle wasn't all that much harder than all play-acting she did. But Goren was smarter than most. He kept her on her toes. That made stringing him along so much more fun.

She decided to stay in America for a little while longer. After this job was done she would head south where it was warm, enjoy the sunshine and lay low. Get a nice walnut-brown tan. Catch up on her reading. Relax and surf the net. When the time was right she would go back up to New York and find out where a certain Detective Alexandra Eames lived and greet her with a needle in the throat.

A car turned up the street. She slouched down further as it passed. After its engine died away, Nicole sat back up. The lights were still on in the apartment but she caught a flicker of movement. After retrieving her binoculars she saw the whore tugging on the gimp's arm. He took a half-hearted, playful swat at her, then pulled his sorry, crippled butt up with the cane.

Time to go to bed.

They disappeared from her sight. The living room lights were turned off; only the faint glow from the hallway reached the windows. They went out fifteen minutes later.

Nicole lit up her watch for a quick peak at the time. It was nearly midnight. She would wait an hour and see if the pathetic cripple got up for one of his midnight excursions. If he was having another insomnia attack he was usually up and around in less than hour. And if he did...well, he had to sleep sometime. If she had to wait another five hours then she would.

The next hour was spent watching for a light, any kind of light, from the apartment. She was completely still, only the sound of slow and controlled breathing through her nose and the soft ticking on her wrist touched the early morning silence. Another car passed. She paid no attention. On the watch, the hour hand made a full revolution around the dial.

No lights came on.

Nicole Wallace's lips curled into a sly smile.

She got out of the car and stretched her legs, taking an extra minute to get her blood flowing again after sitting for hours. Her fingers and toes tingled. Her heart began race. She felt the rush she always felt before getting all her pent-up energy released in a savage frenzy. Then she began to walk quickly and purposefully over to 221B.


	45. Chapter 45

House woke up and blinked the fuzziness out of his eyes in the dark room. He could have sworn he heard something and sat there listening. Other than traffic and barking dogs, nothing. Wide awake in the middle of the night...again. Dammit, he had been sound asleep a minute ago. What happened? Did he really hear something? Probably just the usual creaking noises from the aging building. Out of pure habit he reached for his pills, only succeeding in knocking them the floor in what seemed like a storm of jangling noise. "Shit!" he growled to himself, then looked at the woman beside him. She hadn't moved a muscle. But his leg was starting its nightly protest and he needed another pill. Reluctantly, he switched on the lamp. Cuddy slept on. Groaning louder than he meant to, he slowly slid out of bed and painfully bent down to rescue his pills.

"You've already had a pill," Cuddy mumbled from the other side of the bed.

House stood up and met her tired, weary gaze. "I know. My leg is hurting again and I need another one," he said as he opened the bottle and tipped a white pill into this mouth.

A not-so-subtle frown clouded Cuddy's features. "So soon?"

"It happens, Lisa. I can't help it."

"I'm sorry." The fact the there was nothing she could for him weighed heavily in those words and colored them with regret.

"Me too," he said with a sigh, then gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm going to be up for a while. Care to join me?"

She shook her head and inched her way over to his side of the bed until her head rested on his pillow. "Don't be gone too long, okay?"

"Okay. Don't hog the pillows and take your half out of the middle."

The pills went back to the night stand, then House switched off the lamp. As he had done hundreds if not thousands of times before, he made his way to the living room in the complete dark. He had lived in the apartment for fifteen years. The path was as familiar as the rattle of the Vicodin bottle.

All the nights spent over at Cuddy's home had already given him a feel for the place. Nevertheless, he had a feeling that a few stubbed toes were in his near future. He turned on the living room lights and made his way to the kitchen.

* * *

Nicole Wallace stood at the open front door, listening for the slightest noise from inside the apartment. For a full minute she stood half-in, half-out the door, willing her heartbeat to remain slow and steady, ready to bolt should a neighbor happen to come by. Nothing. Complete silence. She stepped inside and ever so slowly and carefully closed the door. In the quiet apartment she let her eyes adjust to the new closed-in darkness, shapes gradually forming under the muted amber glow of the street lamps. 

The sofa she had seen many times through the windows was directly in front of her, seeming huge in the dark living room. She reached out and felt the leather underneath her hand. It felt like tacky fake leather. No surprise coming from a crippled dipshit like Dr. House. He probably bought it at a garage sale.

A faint noise like a baby rattle, then a low masculine voice and a light came on from the end of the hall.

_Goddammit. The fucking gimp was awake._

She remained behind the sofa, listening for footsteps and ready to duck out of view at a moment's notice. Then a quiet female voice drifted into the room. The fucking slut was up, too.

The voices didn't get any closer. Nicole strained to hear them, picking up what sounded like '_care to join me_?' from the gimp. Then '_don't hog the pillows_'. The pillows. So, it seems that the whore was staying put. The light turned off then she heard tap-thump, tap-thump as the cripple dragged his sorry ass down the hall. She ducked down as the tap-thump got closer, then the living room was flooded with light. He didn't flop down on the sofa and turn on the television, instead he kept limping along. Then the soft click of another light being turned on and the brief, yapping creak of what sounded like a cabinet being opened. Nicole poked her head up. The gimp was in the kitchen. Which had only one way in and one way out.

Nicole crept her way to the kitchen doorway and peeked around. He was at the other end, fixing himself a drink, his back to her. A few more steps closer to him as he put the bottle back into the cabinet. She took three more steps before he turned around and froze.

The glass full of amber liquid slipped out of his hand and shattered on the floor, leaving glittering shards and a splash of expensive booze at his feet. A gasped "_You_–" was all she let him get out before her rage boiled over and she charged at him with all her strength. The gimp went flying backwards into the counter, the sound of him slamming into the sharp edge was music to her ears. His cane ended up by her feet and she kicked it to the other side of the room. He fell hard on to his hands and knees. Spots of blood swirled into the amber pool; he had landed on some of the broken glass. A swift kick up to his gut and the wind was knocked out of him, turning him over onto his back, as helpless as a turtle.

As the worthless crippled sputtered and cried and moaned, Nicole broke into a full smile. It was all too easy. "Fucking gimp," she snarled, and sent a kick to his right leg and relished the sweet sound of his howling agony, his beet-red, tear-streaked face, a large piece of broken glass sticking out of his bloody arm. Her boot met swiftly and savagely with his damaged thigh again. "Does your leg hurt, Dr. House?" Nicole sneered as he tried to curl up into a fetal position but couldn't.

"_Greg? Greg, what the hell is going on out there_?"

The slut was up and on her way down the hall.

Nicole turned to meet her target halfway, not pausing even when the gimp began to scream, "Lisa, run! Get out, Lisa! _GET OUT_!"


	46. Chapter 46

The whore stepped into view just as Nicole noticed the phone and ripped it out of the wall and throw it across the room. Her eyes locked with Nicole's and nearly fell out of her head when she recognized the woman in the hallway. Goren must have shown some crisp, clear photographs for the whore to realize who was in the apartment as she had maced her good and knocked her to the pavement in the grocery store parking lot before had even turned around. She looked just as she did at the store–spineless, worthless, sorry excuse for a woman. Letting her addict lead her around on a leash.

Now Nicole was determined to finish what she what Goren had set in motion from the day they had met. He would get a good long at the aftermath and have no one to blame but himself. He methodically took away everything she tried to reclaim for herself–a family, a daughter, a decent existence. It was all gone, thanks to him. Now it was her turn to tear apart everything in his life that he cared about; watch it all crumble down around him as she laughed.

She couldn't wait for him to see what she had in store for Eames.

"_Oh...God_," was all the pathetic slut could say before she nearly tripped over her own feet and began to run back down the hall, the over-sized tee-shirt whipping along her knees. Another hoarse cry of "_Lisa, get out_!" sputtered from the kitchen.

Nicole was after her like a shot, following the bitch down the long narrow hallway towards the farthest room in the back; the bedroom. As she chased down her prey, it felt as if she were fanning the flame, the need to get what she came for burning through her like a white-hot blaze, consuming everything. Now it was time to claim what was hers. Time for the fire to spread and make everything in its path twisted, scorched and ugly.

The whore made it across the threshold of the bedroom and threw all she had into slamming the door; her twisted, terrified expression made Nicole grin as she threw herself into the door as it tried to swing shut. Her shoulder hit the thick wooden door with a thick, hard slam and knocked her off balance and down to the floor. The force swung the door back and took the whore down, too. Getting her bearings straight, Nicole looked up to see that she was practically laying across the doorway. The slut noticed that as well and scrambled to her feet, preparing to throw herself into door again.

"_Greg!_" Cuddy cried, panic strangling her voice.

"Stupid bitch," Nicole growled. Only one door between her and her target. Not for long.

* * *

A stinging in his eyes brought him out of the grey haze that had settled over him; like he was floating inside a storm cloud, lightning strikes buzzing up and down his leg. Sweat ran down his face like rain against a window pane. The smell of alcohol, shining jewels scattered in front of him. Jewels? No, that wasn't right. Glass. Shards of glass. The remains of the drink he hadn't gotten around to enjoying. He was interrupted. The broken glass, the pool of amber liquid with a dark thick red swirled in it. Blood. His blood. A hunk of glass stuck out of his arm like an arrowhead and a million other shards pierced his right thigh. He ripped the arrowhead piece out. Compared to his leg, the pain from that felt like a mildly irritating mosquito bite. 

He had been interrupted before he had had a chance to take a single sip of his drink. She had been in his kitchen. Elizabeth. Nicole Wallace. She was in his apartment, had slammed him into the counter, mercilessly kicked the shit out of his leg. _Fucking gimp_.

Pain, pain, more pain coiled up his leg, tightening and tightening...

"Greg!"

Lisa's voice. Nicole was nowhere in sight. The voice was coming from the back, probably the bedroom. Nicole had to be back there, too. Back there with Lisa while he lived out the starring role of a useless, blubbering pile of waste on the other side of the apartment. Oh, no...

A clear thought through the haze–the phone. Did Nicole get to the phone?

He couldn't see into the living room from where he was. And broken glass was all over the damn place.

Lisa screamed again. Another voice...a voice with an accent. And the fucking phone, if the damn thing wasn't scattered all over the place like the glass, was a million miles away.

House turned over onto his belly and literally dragged himself across the glass, the blood, the pain, everything, with his fingernails. One caught along a crack in the floor and tore to the quick. Beads of sweat continued to drip into his eyes and cloud his vision. A salty taste filled his mouth.

"_Fucking whore!_" Nicole's English accent rang in his ears, followed by heavy pounding and another shriek from Cuddy.

Another shard of glass dug into his right knee as he reached the doorway and began to cry as he saw the phone was missing from the lamp table. He cried in misery, in fear, in pain. "Lisa...oh, God...," House croaked in a barely audible voice. The phone was dead. They were dead. The phone was gone.

But was his cellphone?

Where was it? Where the hell did he leave his fucking cellphone?

On the other lamp table. House squinted and tried to focus. The other lamp table looked undisturbed. His cellphone was one of the smaller ones. Easy to miss. He really hoped it was easy to miss.

Crawling over there would take too damn long, time he and Cuddy most definitely didn't have. Goddamnit, he couldn't do anything to help her. Nothing. Anger seeped into his aching limbs. Their only help would come if the damn phone was still there. Pulling himself to a standing position felt like climbing a mountain without any gear, he felt helpless, shaking as much as the agony in his leg would allow. Rusty gears turned over in his leg, nothing to soothe the sharp teeth digging in deeper and deeper. The lamp table was twenty feet away. The longest twenty feet he had ever seen. He took one step before the grey haze filled his eyes once again and he felt himself falling.


	47. Chapter 47

Cuddy was holding the door back with everything she had. Panting, grunting, and various strings of expletives came from the other side. Running on pure adrenalin, Cuddy ground her heals into the floor and pushed back harder; the sound of Nicole Wallace yelping as her fingers were caught in the door was small sweet victory.

Her cellphone was in its charger on the night stand. House's other phone was on the other night stand. Both were well out of her reach; The second she left the door Nicole would be over the threshold in half a second or less. The phones might as well be on the moon.

"_Fucking whore_!"

Nicole rammed her shoulder into the door again like a football player trying to break through a line for the touchdown.

Cuddy's feet slipped a half inch. Nicole was going to smash her way into the room one or another.

"Greg!" Cuddy cried, feeling her feet slip a little more. "Greg, get in here! For God's sake, get in here _now_!

Another cry as her scalp felt like it was tearing away from her head. Nicole had managed to squeeze an arm through and had grabbed a handful of Cuddy's hair and pull like she was trying rip it off to keep for a souvenir. Cuddy reached up and felt an arm covered with a jacket sleeve, then bare skin. Even then Cuddy did the only thing she could do dug in her nails, not stopping even as one broke, then another broke, not stopping even as she felt something warm and sticky dripping down her fingers.

"_Bitch_," Nicole hissed. Her grip loosened for half a beat and that was all the opportunity Cuddy needed to dig in her heals again and slam herself back against the door. Her hair was let go, but the crazy woman on the other side refused to budge.

"Greg!" Cuddy screamed as her grip began to falter again. "_Greg, get up_!"

* * *

Her voice cut through the blurriness in his head like a scalpel through flesh and House regained his balance. Sweat trickled into his eyes and stung them. Blood dripped freely from his arm. His leg was one throbbing mass, the white-hot coils of pain wrapping tighter and tighter. Setting even the slightest amount weight on it was torture, but he hardly had a choice. A few moments of agony in exchange making his way over to the only lifeline he and Cuddy had. 

Five big steps to the cellphone, maybe one or two more. That was all. Get the phone, call 911. Announce that he had called the police and hope that the bitch will run into their arms. Let her rot in prison. Or take a nice trip to the gas chamber.

He was balancing on his left leg. He had to walk. He had to.

The first step on his right leg was like walking into molten steel and his leg nearly collapsed. Only a quick step with his left leg, throwing all his weight onto that side saved him. One step closer. One less step to take.

Another step with the right leg. Pain had become one complete mass, less sharp and more textured throughout his leg. Maybe it was the increasing panic or adrenalin, but he was able to take more weight with that step.

The table, and the phone, were getting closer.

"_Greg, please_–"

"_Fucking cripple and his slut! You're both dead_!"

Dripping sweat clouded his vision; he quickly swiped a hand over his eyes and pressed forward. The phone was there. It was within his sight. Another step or two and it would be in his hands.

One more step. Just one more.

And a searing pain in his shin as his leg caught the corner of the coffee table. House pitched forward; he was halfway to the floor before he realized he had lost his balance. Crashing, glass shattering and the sound of wood splintering all around him as the lamp table was crushed underneath him.

Spots swam in front of him. Buzzing filled his ears. Fresh pain in his arms, large splinters and another shard of glass.

More crashing. What the hell was falling now?

Nothing in the living room. The crashing was coming from down the hall, the bedroom Crashing and screaming.

Oh God. Lisa...Lisa was screaming, the sheer terror in her voice cracked the paint on the walls.

The phone. It was just there. Where was the fucking phone?

Something smooth and metal under his hand. There it was. He landed on top of it rather hard. Please don't let it be broken. Please, please, please...

It lit up when he opened it. His hands were slick with sweat and blood, he could barely hold onto the damn thing and nearly dropped it. A faint beep as he inadvertently pressed a button, then ringing.

"Hello?" Wilson answered. "Hello? House, why are you calling in the middle of the night? House, are you there?"


	48. Chapter 48

"House?" Wilson's voice sounded tinny and far away on the cellphone.

"Call the police, Wilson," House gasped. All the buttons on the phone appeared to be a jumbled mess. The damn thing could be upside-down and inside out for all he knew. His hands were a shaking mess. "She's here," he got out before the phone slipped back onto the floor.

"What is–"

As another shriek from Cuddy ripped through the apartment, House screamed, "_Call the fucking police now! She's here! Just shut up and call the police!_"

When Wilson's tinny voice said he was calling 911, House clawed at the arm of the sofa and began to pull himself up. With all the white-hot pain searing through his leg the pain in his bloody arms seemed rather insignificant; he barely noticed both arms were now ripped to shreds from wrist to elbow. Sitting up was easier than he expected. An idiotic laugh tried to escape his throat and got stuck.

"Elizabeth." The name was just a half-choked garble as House tried to get his good leg underneath him so he could hopefully stand up again.

Another scream. House couldn't tell whose voice it was. Another crash.

"Elizabeth!"

Trying to stand up again was an exercise in futility. His good leg felt like Jello, his bad leg was a worthless scarred mass of flesh.

"Elizabeth!" House cried, unsure of whether or not his voice was loud enough for anyone to hear. Somewhere in the background he thought he could hear Wilson's voice calling his name. "Elizabeth! Get in here, you bitch! Get in here!"

* * *

She couldn't hold on anymore, another hard shove and Cuddy went reeling across the room and landed in a sprawled heap in front of the night stand. Where the phone was. One blind, searching hand reached up only to be savagely kicked away. The sound of breaking bones ricocheted off the walls along with Cuddy's cry of pain. "Get up, slut," was growled as a she was yanked up by her hair. 

"The gimp is waiting for us. It's showtime," Nicole gleefully declared, then swept everything off the night stand; the phone, the lamp, the alarm clock.

_The gimp. Slut_. Those words shook Cuddy to the core. That's what Nicole thought of them. She and House weren't people, they were just the gimp and the slut, just things for Nicole to play with until she got bored with them and tossed them aside. Or into a trash can if one happened to be close enough. Then anger began to flood; anger at being violated, anger at paying for someone else's perceived crimes, anger at this psychopath just barging in and thinking other people were there just for her own amusement. When the anger reached its crest, and the damn began to break, Cuddy's unhurt hand formed a fist and she walloped Nicole Wallace across the face so hard she wouldn't have been surprised if she had broken a few more bones. Cuddy intended to bolt for the door, but her momentum carried right her right over to Nicole and they tumbled into each other, tripping over the scattered contents that were once on the night stand.

Without thinking, Cuddy put out her broken hand to cushion the fall. Pain like a thousand nails were being driven up her arm shot up to her shoulder. Her scream should have shattered the windows. The hand that had recently made violent contact with Nicole's face was numb but otherwise unscathed as it cradled her hurting and swelling broken right hand.

"Oh..._fuck_," Nicole groaned. Cuddy glanced over to see psychopath stumble to her feet, a smear of red all over her chin. Her fingers swiped at her bloody face and Nicole looked at her now red-stained hand with disbelief. "Okay. Play time is over." With that Nicole strode over, knocking the toppled lamp out of the way and delivered a sharp kick to Cuddy's gut.

"Elizabeth!"

Her thick-soled work boot was raised for another kick, but at the sound of her other name Nicole froze and looked out the bedroom door.

"Elizabeth! Get in here, you bitch! Get in here!" House called out.

Nicole smiled and leaned over the panting and hurting Cuddy. "Let's go, whore. We shouldn't keep the gimp waiting." Then Cuddy felt herself being dragged out of the bedroom by her hair. She struggled to shuffle along on her knees and kept falling over, right onto her broken hand. Being dragged along the floor like a bad dog about to be punished by its master. Just what Nicole wanted all along.

* * *

His stomach dropped at the sight of Cuddy being dragged into the living room by her hair by a bloody Nicole Wallace, also known as Elizabeth. House noticed a weeping Cuddy cradling her right hand, it appeared purple and swollen. 

Nicole suddenly exploded and screamed "_Shut up_!" before backhanding the other woman across the mouth, sending her flying backwards, her head bouncing off the floor with a sickening thud. It took House everything he had to avoid breaking down into a useless crying mess.

Just as quickly, he watched Nicole regained her composure. She turned to back to House. If she was surprised to see that he had made it to the living room it didn't show on her mask of a face. In a calm and quiet voice, she asked "What do you want, cripple?"

As he shifted to put his weight on his left side, House answered, "Why don't you pick on someone your own size for a change."

"Who would that be? You?" She laughed as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. "Even on your best day you could never touch me, gimp."

"I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about Goren."

"Bobby? He may be smart, but really, you give him too much credit."

"That's rich coming from you, Elizabeth. You have to go around beating up on a drug addict, a crippled drug addict, and a woman instead of the one person you're really after. Why can't you just admit that you're too chicken-shit to have a face-to-face with Bobby because you know you'll lose."

"I haven't lost yet. Bobby is too busy running around in circles trying to find me. Once again I'm right under his nose and he has no idea."

"Not anymore." House reached over and picked up the cellphone that he had covered with a piece of the broken table. His arm was shaking. "You missed this. The police are on their way."

A fleeting ripple of anger passed over her face like a stone thrown in a lake, then her calm expression settled in again. "They're not here yet." House watched in a strangely detached way as she reached into hidden pocket, pulled out a syringe, and yanked off the cap. "Time to put you out of your misery."

House laughed. "You don't know shit about my misery. You wouldn't last an hour in my shoes."

"Say goodbye, gimp. Too bad–" Her words were cut off as Cuddy swept her legs under Nicole; she yelped as she crashed to the floor, landing right on her tailbone.

Something shiny skittered across the floor and into the splintered remains of the lamp table. The syringe full of something clear. Something deadly.

"Greg!" Cuddy screamed, then cried out in agony as Nicole kicked her swollen hand.

House picked up the syringe. It was warm from being against Nicole's body. It was smooth and almost weightless. The thin needle glittered like a precious metal. Such a tiny thing could save someone's life in an instant, then end it just as quickly. He looked up to see a pair of eyes filled with murderous rage. Those eyes grew wide with shock when he plunged the syringe into Nicole Wallace's chest.

For a split second the living room was a still life, not a hair moving, all the sound lost inside a vacuum of astoundment. The two doctors gaping open-mouthed at the homicidal blonde woman who was sitting on the floor with a syringe sticking out of her chest like some ghoulish wind-up toy, the poisonous contents of the syringe now circulating through her bloodstream. Ever so carefully, as if she were picking up an injured kitten, Nicole reached up and pulled the syringe out, then let it tumble out of her hands.

Her eyes met House's. For the first time he got a good look into them. He noticed they were blue like his. They were as empty and cold as a winter night in the North Pole. In his mind he saw ice running through her veins instead of the red blood that smeared her mouth.

"Bobby still lost," Nicole whispered, a ghost of smile playing triumphantly on her bloody lips. She giggled like she had let the world in on a secret joke, then slumped to the floor. Her last breath was a short, faint gasp. Ice blue eyes were still open, staring past the nothingness that took the place of her soul.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, then began to scream louder and louder. Damn cops are never around when you need them, House thought.

He turned to Cuddy, who was curled up and weeping silently into the floor. Her hand was the size and color of an eggplant. He looked back over at Nicole Wallace. She was still dead. He was glad.

"She got off too easy," House muttered into the living room. He didn't know if Cuddy heard him or not. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore. His leg hurt. He didn't know where his pills were. He couldn't think with all the fucking noise from the police cars. The last thing he remembered was the annoying sound of sirens and strange voices outside his front door.


	49. Chapter 49

So this was it. The end of the road, so to speak. The end of long, long journey along the twisted path laid down by the one and only Nicole Wallace. Well, almost the end.

Goren hadn't believed it until he saw her with his own eyes. If there hadn't been for the bloody nose it would have looked like she had just closed her eyes for a nap. But she was dead. An empty syringe had been found next her body. _Strychnine_, Goren thought morosely as he looked at the camera that had been in Nicole's jacket pocket, _for Dr. House or Dr. Cuddy_.

Dr. House's apartment looked like a tornado had blown through it. Broken glass, splintered furniture and splattered blood from all three of the people found inside littered the place. Dr. House was unconscious by the time the police had kicked down his door. Dr. Cuddy had managed tell the police a rambling tale about the blonde woman who had broken in and attacked them before she was sedated. In the meantime the man who had made the call to 911, Dr. James Wilson, was telling the cops everything he knew.

Goren and Eames had seen their fair share of staged crime scenes, ranging from the pathetic to the almost perfect. The scene at 221B was the real thing. The evidence would support every word Dr. Cuddy said and every word Dr. House would say. Goren would bet his badge on it. Eames offered up her pension if one shred of evidence told them otherwise. If the death of Nicole Wallace wasn't justifiable they didn't know what was.

The doctors had finished picking the seemingly endless splinters and shards of glass from House's arms by the time the detectives had arrived at the hospital two hours earlier. The scratches, cuts, gouges and stitches were covered with pristine white bandages that matched the hospital sheets that covered House up to his chest. Other than mumbling Cuddy's name every now and then, House hadn't moved; still out cold. Cuddy herself was asleep in the next room with a grand total of six broken bones in her splinted right hand.

Beeping machines and the ever present smell of stale disinfectant made Goren's stomach turn. Good Lord, he hated hospitals. It was all too much like his mother's hospital room during her last weeks. At least there had been the flowers he had brought for her to brighten up the place and his brother there with her...

_Damn you, Nicole. Damn you to hell._

He turned his chair away from Eames as he fought back the tears. Not now. Turning into an emotional wreck wasn't going to change anything. It could wait until he got back to New York, to the privacy of his apartment with the new locks courtesy of a now dead psychopath. Then he could cry and wail and hurl everything he could his hands on across the room for as long as he wanted.

"Lisa?"

Goren looked up at the sound of House's voice to see him shudder, then relax back into the bed.

"That's the fourth time he's said her name," Eames noted.

"He's nuts about her," Goren said.

"Really? I didn't notice," Eames drolled as she stood up to stretch her legs. "Why are we here again?"

"We're visiting injured friends. Friends tend to do those kinds of things. Besides, I want to talk to him."

"The only talking he's doing right now is talking in his sleep. What about Dr. Cuddy? Do you want to talk to her now that she's unconscious, too?"

"I'd like to talk to her when she wakes up, if I can."

"You do realize that Nicole Wallace is dead. It's over. And you do realize that it could be hours before either of them wakes up."

"I can wait."

"Bobby, we need to get back to our desks or else Ross is going have our asses in a sling. Last I heard New Jersey wasn't on our beat."

"Go ahead, Eames. I'm staying here."

"Bobby–"

"This all started because Nicole wanted to get back at _me_," Goren said sharply, his tired eyes roaring back to life. "My brother is dead for being my brother and two people were terrorized and are now they're in the hospital because they happened to be my friends. If my mother had set foot outside Nicole would have killed her, too."

"It's not your fault," Eames told him calmly.

"I want to know what really happened," Goren went on as if his partner hadn't said anything. "If you want to go back to New York, then go back. I'm staying right here until I get some answers. If Ross wants to nail my ass to the wall, that's my problem, not yours."

"You're already on thin ice with Ross."

"My problem, Eames. _Mine_. This started with me and it's going to finish with me."

"Bobby, it's _over_."

"It's over when I say it is!" Goren's voice boomed. A nurse walking by jumped, then shuffled away. "Nicole was staying at a place just down the road from Dr. House. She was right in front of all our faces and we didn't see her. I want to know what she was doing here, why she came after them again, and what the hell she was going to do next. If you and Ross don't like it, that's just too fucking bad. Right now I couldn't care less. I want the truth and I'm going to get it."

Goren turned to look at the unconscious man in the hospital bed. He could his partner's eyes burning a hole in his back.

"Tell House and Cuddy to call me when they get a chance," Eames requested quietly.

"I will."

"Thank you. I'll try to stall Ross, but I can't stall him forever. I hope you get your answers, Bobby."

From the corner of his eye Goren watched his partner leave the room. He blinked when a weak voice muttered "Lisa?" again.


	50. Chapter 50

"Hello."

Robert Goren, who had been making a mental list of things to do when he got back to New York, which included the inevitable reprimand from Ross, buying flowers for two graves, putting Nicole Wallace's file away for good, was pulled out of his reverie by the familiar voice. For the first time in hours that same voice hadn't said "Lisa." He looked over to see House's confused blue eyes darting around.

"Dr. House," Goren said, getting up and walking over to the bed. "Dr. House, it's good to see you awake. How do you feel?"

"Lisa?" House muttered, ignoring Goren's question, starting to sound nervous. One blind hand reached out and grabbed his friend's wrist, like he was about to fall over a cliff and needed a strong anchor to hold him still. "Lisa? Where is she? Is she okay? Oh...God...,"

"She's fine, Dr. House," the detective reassured his friend in what he hoped was a calm, soothing voice. "She's sleeping in the next room."

"Her hand...it looked hurt..."

"She's got a few broken bones. Nothing serious."

"I want to see her." House sat up so suddenly that his head swam in a soupy fog for a few moments.

"Whoa...wait a minute," Goren said. "Just lay back. You shouldn't be up."

"I'm getting up," House growled as he pulled his right leg over until it dangled over the edge of the bed. "I want to see her. Now get the fuck out of my way."

"Dr. House, you shouldn't–"

"You lost, Bobby!" the diagnostician blurted out. Seeing the detective blink, he went on: "You still lost. That's what Nicole Wallace said just before she died."

"Before you injected her with her own syringe? That was you, wasn't it?"

"After. She pulled the syringe out, said you lost, then keeled over." House's voice took on a flat, detached affect, as if he were reporting on what he had watched from a distance. He had all the excited demeanor of a 3rd grader reading a book report.

"How did you get the syringe away from her?"

"Bobby, I really don't want to talk about it right now. Just shut the hell up and get out of my way."

"Please tell me–"

House tilted his drawn, haggard face up and met the detective eye to eye. "Fuck you and your questions, _Detective_. You're about fifty miles outside your jurisdiction and I don't have to tell you _shit_. Right now I don't care about you or your mother or your brother or Nicole Fucking Wallace. The person I do care about is in the next room, and if you don't get out of my way you're going to be picking your capped teeth out of the fucking wall." A nurse stepped into the room. Before she could get one word out, House turned to her and screamed, "What the fuck are you looking at? Get out of here!"

She was out of the room in less than two seconds.

Though he felt like he had been slapped across the face, Goren kept his cool, didn't react. He was used to taking the brunt of things said in the heat of moment. It came with the job. Glimpses of House's dark side, his mean streak, had shone through before. Now Goren was staring down both barrels of it and House had every right to point it at him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. House," the detective said quietly, taking two steps away to give the doctor some room to move.

House carefully slid off the bed and held on to it for balance while his head swam again. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but slowly ebbed away. "Are you sorry for what happened or sorry that you didn't get to kill her yourself?" the doctor asked.

"Both," Goren answered stonily.

"That's what I thought."

House began to limp away from the bed when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

"_Bobby, don't touch me._"

"Dr. House, please," Goren pleaded. "You're as white as a sheet and you're shaking like a leaf. You're not going to make it to the door. If you want to see her then let me help you."

The door seemed to be miles away. Bobby was right, he wasn't going to make it on his own. His head felt like it was filled with sand and his legs felt like rubber. The light was hitting his eyes at odd angles. Reluctantly, he leaned against the tall detective and the two of them began to shuffle to the next room.

Out in the corridor, the nurse who had been screamed out of the room eyed them warily.

Lisa Cuddy still sound asleep, her head listing toward the window, long hair ribboned across the pillow, exactly as she had been when Goren peaked in an hour earlier. If House could have ran to her bed he would have. As soon as he was close enough, he reached out and took her left hand. Soft and warm. Several of the usually long almond shaped nails were broken off at the quick, the edges still jagged. Her splinted right hand rested across her stomach.

"How many bones were broken?" House asked.

"Six, I think."

"Nicole dragged Lisa in by her hair. Her hand must have broken back in the bedroom, and Nicole dragged her into the living room. Lisa was trying to keep up and trying not fall forward on her hand...," House trailed off, his voice tight. "Will you bring me a chair?"

Goren quickly grabbed the nearest chair and got it under House before he collapsed.

"Wait out in the corridor for me. Just let me sit with her for a while," the diagnostician said, rubbing his hand along Cuddy's palm. "Let me sit with her for a while, then I'll answer your questions."


	51. Chapter 51

Gregory House knew he was no saint. He could lie, cheat, steal and play mind games without blinking an eye. His moodiness was the stuff of legends. His arrogance was matched only by his drug addiction.

But he had changed. Subtle changes, but changes nonetheless. Not that it mattered to the rest of the world and not that he cared what the rest of the world thought. The only thing that mattered was the one person he was willing to make those changes for. She had noticed. He had counted on that.

Still when all was said and done he wasn't sure he was deserving of a happy ending. Years and years of pain, misery, loneliness–they became the only thing he knew. The sad thing was he had grown to accept it, accept the fact that he was going to live out the rest of his years as the bitter, angry man he had turned into. Strangely it was the very same bitterness and anger that had brought him to her front door. And she had let him in.

No, he didn't deserve a happy ending. But Lisa Cuddy did.

* * *

"I knew I would end up being a patient here sooner or later," Cuddy grumbled thickly as House handed her a cup of water. "But not like this." 

"Would you rather be in another hospital?" House asked, deliberately teasing her a bit to try and lighten the mood.

"Hell no." She gulped down the water, then handed him the cup for a refill.

"The best care from the best doctors, Lisa."

"I don't want the best care. I just want to get the hell out of here."

"You'll be out of here before you know it."

"Not soon enough." She glanced down at her broken hand and frowned. "I'm no good to anyone just laying here and doing nothing."

"Lisa," House began with an impatient sigh, "you're not going to be any good to anybody if you get up before you're ready. Just relax."

"And then what?"

"What _what_? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about why we're in the damn hospital to begin with," Cuddy answered tersely, her tired eyes now casting a stony, knowing glare at him.

The cup and pitcher nearly ended up decorating the floor when those words hit his ears. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about any of it, not now. Later, after the dust had settled, when the mess was cleaned up, when the cops had dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's. But not now. He just wanted to talk with her about the weather, the job, what they were going to have for lunch, anything else. With shaking hands the cup refilled and handed over. He set the pitcher down before he wound up dropping it. "If you're expecting an apology over what I did, you're not getting it. I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. I'm not going to shed one goddamned tear over her. I can still look at myself in the mirror every morning. It was her or us."

"I saw everything," she said. "I was there, remember? This time I saw everything I needed see."

"This time?" he puzzled.

"This isn't the first time I nearly lost you, Greg." Her face twisted as she choked out a miserable sob as House felt his heart sink into oblivion. "When you were shot, I thought for sure you were going to die for nothing. Then you disappeared and I had no idea if you were dead or alive. This time I was going to have a front row seat. She wanted me to watch you take your last breath. It was her or us. You were right about that. I had no choice."

"What–"

"I wanted to hurt her, Greg. I wanted see her broken and bloody and begging for mercy from _us_. I wanted that syringe to fall by me, and believe me, I wouldn't have lost any sleep over it. I'm not asking for an apology, either." She finished with a deep breath, sniffling and swiping at her runny nose.

House passed her a box of tissues and waited a few minutes for Cuddy to compose herself.

"You have nothing to feel guilty over, Lisa," House said quietly.

"I'm not asking if I should justify my feelings or not."

"You're asking for something. What is it?"

"You did what you had to do and you saved our lives. I would never make you apologize for that."

"What do you want, Lisa?"

"I just want to know where we're going now."

"I would hope we continue down the path we were taking," House answered with complete sincerity.

"Me too," Cuddy said with a tiny smile. "We're too far down the road to turn back now. We got detoured, now we just need to get back on track But...um, let's not rush head-long into things, okay? We need to take things one step at a time."

"I know," he said, taking her left hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "You feeling okay? How's the hand?"

"It feels a little swollen, but it's okay."

"That's good. Just don't get any bones broken in your feet or we'll all be in trouble."

"Uh...okay," Cuddy said with a snort. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do. Am I still moving in, boss?"

"Of course."

"Good. I need to talk to Bobby. He might want to talk to you, too."

"Bobby's here?" She gasped, then looked a little annoyed. "Why didn't you say so? Where is he? Is Alex here?"

"Alex is in New York. Bobby is sitting out in the corridor. You up to talking to him?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll get him." House said, but remained in his seat. "You know, there's a piano in one of the classrooms. Call Foreman and Chase and tell them to bring it up here later, after we're done here. They'll listen to you."


	52. Chapter 52

_A/N: This story is coming to an end so the next few chapters will be the last. Thanks to all my readers and all your encouraging reviews. You guys are the best!_

* * *

Goren sat with them in Cuddy's hospital room, the passage of time apparent only by the dimming light in the windows, peppering them with endless questions. House and Cuddy answered as best they could, giving every single detail they possibly offer. It was painful, excrutiating sometimes, and the detective waited with infinite patience Cuddy or House had pause, choke back a sob or blink back a few tears. He poured them cups of water which they accepted with mumbled appreciation. 

As the many bits and pieces began to slide into place it soon became apparent to the detective that Cuddy was the intended target of Nicole Wallace's wrath. All Nicole had to was chase Cuddy to the back of the apartment and left her there, and then she could have easily turned her attention and syringe back to House. No need to break the bedroom door down. No need to voluntary engage in a knock-down, drag-out fight with her at all. He laid out his theory to his friends and they stared back him in the thick silence.

"What did she really want to do to us?" Cuddy wondered aloud.

"I don't know," Goren replied. "But she had her camera with her. At least a few of the pictures would have ended up in an envelope with my name on it, I'm sure."

"Good God...," House muttered and slumped in his chair. His leg was throbbing where Nicole's boot had made recent and violent contact. He was tired of all the questions and just wanted more pills and to get some sleep.

"When Nicole was done with you two, there was only one more person left," Goren said flatly.

"Who?" House asked.

"Eames. Princeton's finest took a look at Nicole's laptop and found that she had looked up directions to my partner's house."

"You don't sound surprised," House noted. It almost sound like Goren had been expecting it.

"I'm not. Nicole found out my birthday and social security number within days of meeting me. Finding an unlisted address is as easy as opening a can of soda for her. Eames can certainly take care of herself, but Nicole is so devious..." he trailed off, not wanting or needing to finish the thought out loud. He looked over to see House rubbing his thigh. "You okay there, Doctor?"

"Yeah." House tried to sound upbeat, but the undercurrent of anxiety coupled with the strain on his haggard face were all to noticeable. "My leg hurts where she kicked me and--"

"She _kicked_ you?" Cuddy gasped in shock, her eyes as wide as manhole covers. "Oh my God, you didn't tell me she kicked you!"

"You didn't ask." He didn't mean to snap at her and winced at her frown.

"Dammit, Greg, why the hell didn't you tell me?"

House ignored here as he felt a migraine building behind his eyes. If he didn't do something about it soon it would make the pain in his leg seem like a paper cut. "Look, my leg...and I think Lisa and I-"

"It's alright, Dr. House." Goren stood up. "You two have been more than helpful."

"Are you leaving?" Cuddy asked.

"Yes, I got what I came for. Thank you for talking to me, I really appreciate it. After everything you've been through...well, I need to get back before Ross reassigns me to animal control." He gave Cuddy a broad, hopeful smile before leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "You take care, Dr. Cuddy."

"You too, Bobby." She managed a smile for him.

"Keep an eye on Dr. House, too."

"I'll try."

"I know you'll do more than that." Goren said with a low chuckle. "Eames wouldn't mind a phone call as long as you're up to making one."

"She'll get one. Tomorrow at the latest. Drive carefully, Bobby."

Goren then turned to the man in the other chair. "Take care, Dr. House."

"Easier said than done," the diagnostician mumbled. He suddenly felt a thousand years old.

"I'm sure there's someone who can help. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

House nodded, and watched Goren said one more goodbye and strode out of the room, back to the hustle and bustle and the Big Apple, leaving the doctors and the waning daylight in the room.

"Greg?"

House looked up when he heard the soft, quiet voice say his name.

"How bad did she hurt you?"

Silence for a few beats, then House answered, "It's nothing I can't handle."

He slowly got to feet, the pain digging its claws in deeper. The air was heavy with the weight of the awareness that Cuddy was watching his every move.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

The truth was he didn't tell her because he had been so concerned about her that he honestly didn't think about it. But she wasn't going accept anything he told her anyway. "You don't need anything else to worry about," he said.

"But she did hurt you," Cuddy pressed on.

"More than you'll ever know." He was finally on his feet and began to limp towards the door. "My leg can't take these damn chairs anymore. I'll be back later."

"Should I still have the piano brought in?"

He turned and found her staring wide-eyed and hopefully. The look on her face made it impossible to turn her down even if he wanted to. The room ceased to exist, the hospital ceased to exist, the entire world ceased to exist. It was her and him and their unbreakable connection.

"Yeah," he said, and her grateful smile nearly made his knees buckle. "Be sure to have some requests ready."


	53. Chapter 53

_A/N: This is the last chapter. Thanks to all my super fantabulous readers. You guys are the best!_

* * *

Eames was about to say something but Goren didn't give her a chance.

"I still lost," Goren said as he watched his partner walk up to his desk.

Eames was puzzled. "Why would Ross say that?"

"Ross didn't say it, Nicole did. She told Dr. House that I still lost just before she died."

"Do you have any idea what she meant by that?"

"I think I do," Goren replied, drumming his fingers on a thick file that was very conspicuously taking up the middle of his desk blotter. Nicole Wallace's file. "I lost because I didn't get to stop her myself. I lost because I didn't get to slap the cuffs on her, knowing the charges would stick and she wouldn't be able to connive her way out of it and see the light of day again. I lost because I didn't get hold of one of her syringes."

Eames frowned and narrowed her eyes. "You wanted to kill her?"

"Am I sorry she's dead, Eames? No. Did I want her dead? Yes. I wanted her to get hit by bus while walking across the street. I wanted her to fall down the stairs and break her neck. I'll admit that. Did I want to kill her myself? If I had to...If I were in Dr. House's shoes, watching Nicole drag you in there by your hair after breaking your hand...yeah, I would do it. I'd kill her without thinking twice. And so would you. You've killed two perps without blinking, Eames."

"Because I didn't have any choice, not because actually I wanted to."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about here. I would have killed those men if I had to, and I would have killed Nicole if I had to."

"Me, too." Eames blinked, not liking the fact that her partner had brought men she had shot into the conversation and changed the subject: "Nicole dragged Lisa by her hair? Did I hear that right?"

"Yes, both House and Cuddy said that. Cuddy said that her scalp is still sore."

"How are they doing? Are they okay?" Eames finally got the question that Goren interrupted.

"They're doing fine, considering the circumstances. The second House woke up he wanted to see Cuddy. They were a bit groggy, in pain, and shell-shocked, not that I could hardly blame them. I told Cuddy to call you. She said she would."

"Great," Eames said. "They're alright now, but what about later? What happens then?"

Goren looked up at his partner. "We give them all the time and space they need. It won't be easy, nothing is, but I think they're both stubborn enough to come out of this without too many scars."

"But they will be scarred for life," Eames said, resigned to the fact.

"Of course they are. So are we. Nicole had a knack for that. Everyone she touched wound up worse off than before in one way or another." Goren stood up, holding the thick file, then strode over the filing cabinet and stuffed it back inside.

* * *

The piano had been wrestled into the room half an hour earlier, and now House was helping Cuddy, with a new cast on her arm and shaky legs from the pain meds, over to the bench. She eased down with a huge sigh of relief. House had barely sat down on his side when she threw her arms around his shoulders and nuzzled his neck.

"Easy there, boss," House said, carefully pushing her over a bit with more than a little regret. "We don't want to over-exert ourselves too soon. Besides, you're more than likely to smack me in the head with that cast."

"I don't care," she muttered absently, moving back over and leaning against him.

"You should. I can't play if you're going to be giving me fresh wounds to tend to. Now what does the boss want to hear?"

"Something pretty."

"Can you narrow that down?"

"No. Just play something."

And he did. Classical music, probably Beethoven. It didn't matter to Cuddy. It was pretty, just what she wanted. Glancing over at him, she could see that he was lost in the music, in the notes, in the keys. He had probably forgotten that she was there. From the corner of her eye she could see the shadows of people stopped outside the door, listening to the music.

Then he stopped as suddenly as he started. Cuddy scowled and poked him in the ribs. "Keep going," she ordered.

"In a minute." He turned to face her. "Something came to me while I was in the next room, thinking things over. I didn't want to think about her...Nicole, Elizabeth, whatever her name was, so I thought about us, about our time together. Then something hit me--I think it's something I've been meaning to tell you but never did. I'm not even sure it's real."

"What is it?"

"It's about separating from Stacy. Did I ever tell you something about that?"

Cuddy's heart rose to her throat and she suddenly felt lightheaded and nearly slipped off the bench. "Yes, yes, you told me that."

"I thought so. Stacy and I were supposed to get a divorce. Does that sound familiar?"

"Yes," Cuddy gulped.

"I signed the papers a long time ago. I don't know how that managed to slip my mind, but I'm telling you now. I figured it would be some good news and you certainly deserve to hear some good news."

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"You're welcome," he said. "More music?"

"Yes, please."

"Something pretty?"

"Yes, please."

"Coming right up."

He launched into another round of classical music. The rest of the world disappeared around Cuddy. It was just her, him and the music.

--The End.


End file.
